


Episode V: Winter Strikes Back

by AsbestosMouth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Comedy, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, New Hope? No Hope I think you'll find, Star Wars/Game of Thrones cross over, Sweeping epic crossing galaxies. Galaxies!, This Galaxy is Far Far Away, With a thousand bantha!, a long time ago
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7358515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dominated by the rule of the Queen of Thorns, the galaxy is at peace. However, as every sensible Sith will tell you, peace is always a lie. Stannis Baratheon threatens another Jedi rebellion, because he is that sort of man. Jaime Lannister is AWOL, much to the disapproval of Darth Castamere. Dorne refuses to be conquered, and Oberyn Martell keeps seducing Varys' numerous spies because, frankly, he enjoys the challenge. The Brotherhood of Hutt and the Dreadfort vie for who has the best crime syndicate, mostly with strongly worded notes and random piracy. </p>
<p>What does a mouse droid embedded with a holographic video that could be porn have to do with anything, anyway?</p>
<p>A <em>GoT/Star Wars</em> comedy-ish crossover. Because smooshing two massive franchises into one fic is always a fun thing to spend a Thursday on. I'd have called this <em>Game of Clones</em>, but there are no clones to be had within, and would breach Trade Descriptions Acts everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic doesn't sit into the existent _Star Wars _universe; lots of lore, from all of the periods before and after the Lucas/Disney timeframe, from all sources, including semi-canon, all mashed up into one gloopy mass, like overly-cooked porridge.__
> 
> __I blame playing Star Wars: The Old Republic a lot for this fic, as well as certain people who shall remain unnamed. You know who you are *glare*_ _

* * *

  

The Hand of the Empress does not bow in the usual manner of his brothers; he does not scrape and ingrate. He stands tall and proud, as befitting an aristocrat of his status within and out the Order, shoulders back, chin high. Instead, for his greeting, he inclines his head before his Mistress, and she answers with a similar gesture. They have been lovers for many years, and associates for even more, yet, in the Chamber, he serves her with politics and discretion rather than his passion and martial skill. The latter are for the bed chamber and the war council. Olenna would have it no other way.

 

“Tywin, a pleasure as always.” Rose-pink eyes cordial.

 

“My Queen of Thorns.” She remains the most beautiful of women; skin pink-sheened and silvery hair elaborate beneath her hooded robe.

 

“Tell me that we are closer to capturing him?”

 

The Darth’s elegant face betrays nothing. She knows which artery to bite.

 

“I am losing patience, Tywin.” Even as her words harden, that delicate smile does not leave her lips. “I do not wish to lose patience with you, of all of my Lords of the Sith. Such unpleasantness would be most unwelcome.”

 

He has seen Olenna tear the heart from the chest of a Rattataki who displeased her, the spy crumpling to the floor in mass of bone-white skin and bloody uniform. She merely wrinkled her nose with a certain distaste, and called for a basin of water. Her reign as Empress has been one of politics, and social manipulation, and he is more than impressed by her capabilities. Her granddaughter, as pert and lovely as his mistress in her youth, sits at her side. Never blacks, or reds for the apprentice of Olenna Tyrell. No. The future empress tends towards delicate petal pinks, or the gold and greens of her patrician house, her long hair unbound. Even the girl’s lightsabre could never be the normal Sith Order red. All very showy, and, for Tywin, a little over-dramatic, but the Roses of the Empire are never the type to embrace the traditional.

 

Refreshing, admittedly, that those who rise to power can play the game of ruling an Empire with a velvet gloved iron fist, rather than chaos, blood, and death. Stability for the Empire, and control over the outer systems, means continuation. Those rebels threaten, of course, but they have always lurked. Now the Jedi are reduced to a handful, the Alliance consists of nothing but a rabble of low-bred alien scum and humans who are too foolish to understand the need for peace at any cost.

 

Perhaps Tywin Lannister, Darth Castamere, Hand of the Empress, is also atypical. War took too many, even though it inflamed his Sith hunger. He adheres to the newer ways, of intrigue and skill. Varys of the Imperial Intelligence network, the Whisperer, chafes at his interference but maintains his perfect Chiss manner whenever the Dark Lord makes his presence known at their headquarters.

 

At his side, his apprentice sighs, bored.

 

“Why is everyone so obsessed with capturing him? He’s just rebel scum. Kill him and have done with it all.”

 

“Cersei, my child. Whilst you show admirable ability in other Sith activities, intellect is not one of your strong points, is it?” Olenna gives her that delightfully patronising smile, and Tywin feels the hate flow between the two women.

 

“He will be brought before you, Empress.”

 

“See it done.”

 

* * *

 

“Fuck’s sake.”

 

“What now?”

 

Clegane wipes his oily hands across his stained shirt, and kicks the random piece of fuselage that lies prone upon the floor. All morning. All bastard morning. Things are not going his bastard fucking way. He aims another kick, just because, and the scuffed once red and black metal slowly topples over.

 

Right on his bastard toolbox.

 

“Fuck’s sake!”

 

Lannister snorts, tending towards giggling.

 

“Fuck you, blondie.”

 

“Blondie’s a nice term, you can’t be that pissed off.” Jaime, grinning, helps him shift the piece of their ship, plonking it where it clatters. “Where’s ‘you handless wanker,’ or ‘fuck you, you shitstain from the cunt of some nameless whore?’ Which, technically, is impossible by the way.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“What’s wrong this time? We need a new ship? Are we going ship stealing? Can we not nick one from a Hutt this time, because that sucked? That really sucked, Clegane. Seriously, the Brotherhood has the nice ones, but I prefer not having them lop off other parts of my body.”

 

“Fuck you, you love that fucking cyborg hand.”

 

“It makes noises.” Jaime beams, as golden and handsome as any smuggler has any right to be. “Sometimes I pretend I’m a Jedi and make lightsabre noises with it. Zshoooom! If I had a lightsabre, it’d be the same colour as _Oath_ \- red and black and Sith-y. Dad would be so proud.”

 

Clegane stares, before smacking him around the head with a meaty, hairy fist.

 

“You forget I know who you are, dickhead.”

 

“Fine, fine. I’ll stop spinning tales, it gets to be a habit these days. What we going to do, big guy?”

 

“We’re due in Storm’s End in three days. Three days, Lannister. We can mend _Oath_ , and get the fuck there in two and a half, or we can twat about to steal another motherfucking ship, one that is a fucking slug and made of shit, and hope to get there in four. Of course we’re fixing _Oath_.”

 

“You need a woman.” Jaime lounges against the ship, being no help whatsoever. Yes, the man is the best pilot and smuggler in the whole bastard galaxy, and yes he is far more dangerous than anyone can even consider when dressed just in battered leathers with blaster pistols at his hips rather than, well, his past, but he verges on the useless when actual work needs to be done. He tends to bat his long eyelashes and charm his way through life. Aristocrats. All the bloody same. Unfortunately, for the vast majority of species, it seems to work for him. “Even if you are an ugly motherless whore. You need something else to fixate on rather than _Oath_. Otherwise I’ll find you doing things to exhaust pipes or something.”

 

“They run too hot. Bad enough my fucking face, let alone my fucking cock.”

 

Lannister’s mouth twitches into a delighted smirk, and Clegane can’t stop himself grinning back, mouth twisted with scar tissue.

 

“Need any help? I can hold your screwdrivers or rub your shoulders while you do all the manly stuff?”

 

“Beer. Need beer.”

 

* * *

 

“The Sith are moving against us, and we are at a critical point.” The tall man with the overly-thin face and the short cropped hair paces, never still, robes flowing about him sensibly. Other men of his station would billow, magnificently, but not this Jedi. He is far too restrained to billow. “The northern sector is with us, but with the Empire controlling the mid belt and most of the east, getting any supplies, troops, or support between us and them is proving nigh on impossible. We have a shipment due. If it arrives I will be more than surprised. We need more than the North and us, Seaworth.”

 

“We can look to the independents, my Lord?”

 

The Jedi, the Lightbringer, clenches his hands. “I prefer not to deal with them. They have no loyalty, and are easily corruptible. Our ties with the North should suffice. Or, at least, they would if we had more men, more ships.”

 

“The Empire will go to the indies if we don’t, Stannis. Stop grinding your teeth.”

 

He is met with a bleakly blue-eyed look that sends his chest tightening with fondness, but Baratheon ceases with his jaw-clenching. Few Jedi are as open of their training and heritage as Stannis Baratheon. Few Jedi live given the devastation of the attack that destroyed the Order, ground it to dust. Robert died in the Black Cells of Highgarden, fighting to his last breath. Renly-

 

Damn Tyrells. Damn them all. It still pains them both.

 

The Starks and the Baratheons. The last bastion of Jedi goodness, of Alliance pride, in the whole bloody galaxy. There are other Jedi knights scattered across space, but they are individuals. Dayne and his Padawan, Elia, loyal to Dorne and Martell. Dondarrion, for all his flirtation with the Dark Side, half-man, half-machine these days. Selmy is somewhere, he can still feel the old Miraluka’s presence, drifting upon the Force. There are others, but weak and unnurtured, as yet undiscovered. So many dead. Only cohesive effort can bring the Empire crumbling with so few of Stannis’ brothers in arms remaining.

 

“How is Shireen’s training?” Fondly, because she is his daughter too, and Davos adores her like he loves his space-pirate smuggling sons. If there was another to teach Shireen the ways of the Light Side of the Force, someone more sufficient than Stannis - who is the epitome of knightly honour, but has little patience for the ways of the healer - then she would be learning from them. A Jedi with talents more attuned to Shireen’s nature would be far more suitable.

 

There are none. She is stuck with her father, just like Seaworth is. A strange little family of misfits indeed.

 

“Her lightsabre technique is appalling, though I think she shall excel in the mental arts more than the physical. She tries, but the last time I watched her spar against the training droids she unfortunately decapitated the statue of the Warrior instead.”

 

He chuckles. “She’s a good girl, is Shireen. She’s got talents beyond hitting things with glowing swords, my Lord.”

 

“She enjoys healing. Perhaps I should focus her on healing instead. She has intellect.” Finally, Davos thinks, suppressing a smile. Finally Stannis sees it.

 

Stannis always wanted a son. Five little unborn boys followed Shireen, all buried within the family plot at his estates upon Storm’s End. However much he tries to mould his sweet-eyed, ruin-faced daughter into knightly pursuits, her own path tends towards the gentler arts. Davos runs interference, places ideas, tries to help the girl - and she is his best friend and his daughter all in one, even if Shireen and Stannis have no idea of the strength of his attachment - walk her own path. The Jedi code asks for serenity, and when she reads, and helps, and tends the wounded, her good nature shines in her smile and laughter. She seems at peace.

 

“I think she would like that. She’s so very kind.” Shireen taught him to read, something the old smuggler had managed to avoid for forty-odd years. “It’s a noble tradition, that of the healer. Anyone can learn to swing a weapon, but it takes someone strong to help the sick.”

 

“Who should we approach?”

 

Back to the independents, like a switch being flicked. Stannis always needs time to consider. Once it took him three months to agree with Davos about having a new bathing suite fitted, and half an hour in the massaging waters with an attentive Seaworth scrubbing his back to admit the hot tub was an excellent idea.

 

“How legit do you want to be?”

 

“I would prefer to keep this above board, for the time being. You know more than I about the independents, since you still technically are one, smuggler.” For years Davos worked the outer reaches of space, dashing between planets to deliver illegal cargo. One of the best, they said, of all time, until he ended up playing hero for the Jedi, for Stannis Baratheon, and never left the man’s sphere of influence - seduced at first by the glamour of the Order, then Stannis’ furious blue eyes.

 

“Greyjoys are pirates, they tend towards the lawless. Boltons? Northern but I don’t trust them. Roose is too clever by half, and his son is a murderous little shit. Tully and Arryn are currently caught between King’s Landing and The Reach, so we shouldn’t expect a response there, even with Cat Stark’s ties. With that boy as Lord Arryn as well, they are weak. The Blackfish is a possibility, but is outcast by his own people? Who else?”

 

Thinking, he joins Stannis at the vast glass window, overlooking the lightning fields of Storm’s End. Vast pylons rear towards the blackened sky, crackling purple with static electricity, feeding the planet. Theirs is an industrial powerhouse, fed by the endless whirling maelstrom of the world’s atmosphere. At least the revenue brought in from selling the harnessed power to other planets allows Stannis to fund his rebellion. The ancient Storm Kings of these lands once ruled the galaxy; Baratheon blood flows in the veins of many of the elite houses, even that of the red-skinned Sith supposed purebloods.

 

“The Dothraki have numbers, and the First of Her Name, but they have their own agenda. The only ones I can think of that might help, and may be suitable, are the Dornish.”

 

“Doran Martell?"

 

“I was thinking of the Red Viper, my Lord. Doran needs to be seen as neutral. We could go to the Snake?”

 

“He tried to seduce me once. I had to threaten him with my sabre.” The Jedi’s expression darkens, and to Davos he resembles nothing more than an exhausted warrior captain for whom legions would willingly die.

 

“He’s got good taste, my Lord. I’d have punched him in the gob, though, for going near my Jedi.” Davos likes making Stannis’ ears turn pink.

 

* * *

 

The citadel in the clouds, of water and beauty and splendor.

 

“My prince?”

 

The saturnine man looks up from his writing. Even in this age of technology, Oberyn Martell prefers to write with ink and pen. He enjoys the sensuality of words upon paper, the intimacy fostered by sending physical copies of manuscripts and letters rather than the electronic form. His various lovers cherish his missives, his poetry, his carnality spread wantonly in that spider-trail of words. His electronic mails, when he does send them, are legendary. Some enterprising soul once hacked the server, stole the emails, and sold them as a datapad downloadable of pure porn.

 

Oberyn bought a copy, obviously.

 

Hotah, the huge black-furred Cathar, bows before him. Even in the peace and tranquility of Oberyn’s palace he wears a blaster across his back, pistols at his belt. There can be no security lapse.

 

Dorne, sweet desert planet, always embraced alien races. His own tastes, esoteric, lay beyond mere human. Ellaria, beautiful and Twi’lek, gave him four daughters before her death. These children favour her racial characteristics, but all possess Oberyn’s dark eyes. Obara’s mother is a Dathomirian Nightsister, as wild and proud as her offspring, which explains his warrior child’s taste for the whip and spear. Doran told him once, amused, that Oberyn is a one-man attempt to promote species harmony, albeit with his penis.

 

“We have intercepted an Empire vessel.” At least Hotah looks confused with it all. “Not that we caught it ourselves, my prince, for it asked for permission to dock.”

 

“What type?”

 

“Single person fighter, my prince. Tyrell design. We have it surrounded in the landing bay.”

 

He stands, vibrospear in his hand.

 

“Prepare the men.”

 

*****

 

The vessel, battered about the nose and slightly burned, painted in the flat grey of the Empire, menaces. This far south in the galaxy the Imperials wield less control. Dorne shines independent, much to the ire of the Empress, and resists occupation with favourable trade deals and the skilled negotiation of Doran Martell. The planet knows that one day, soon, the move against their freedom will begin. He had not expected the war to being with a single ship; whoever sits within the vessel is either a fool, or someone so dangerous that they truly expect to survive the Dornish onslaught of the Martell palace guards.

 

Sith. He spits the name in his mind. He has killed his share.

 

“Are they in place, Hotoh?”

 

“Dayne has the flank, my prince.” The Sword of the Morning, his lightsabre hilt easy in his hand, and far too handsome for his own good, seems perfectly at ease with the chance of meeting a possible Sith warrior. Cheerful, even, as much as the man can be. Arthur, he supposes, fights more dangerous foes than a single Empire soldier. “Yronwood the rear.”

 

“Tell the Imperial to leave his ship.”

 

The message relays, a burst of static making everyone apart from Dayne wince, and slowly, so very slowly, the blacked-out canopy of the ship begins to rise. Metal grinds upon metal, the damage to the fighter more extensive than just a broken fore and scorching across the double wings. Cracks widen, and, finally, shards of smoked glass shatter.

 

“Is this Dorne?” The Sith pureblood, dusky red flesh and dark hair falling to his collar, peers nervously over the flight controls.

 

Oberyn has no compunction in calling him beautiful, for all Sith are handsome, even with the bone spurs and tendrils, even if their obsession with racial purity and domination taints their looks. Ugliness from within sours even the most gorgeous of faces. He finds loveliness in all, apart from Hutt, but some species transcend. Twi’lek, of course. Chiss can be devastating. Togruta. Zeltron. Nautolan. But Sith, true Sith, not the faction but the race, with their reddened skin and burning eyes? He understands how others could follow such beauty without question, how empires rose because of their power. Even if they prefer to kill, enslave, and destroy their way to greatness.

 

Oberyn cannot help wanting to have pretty things. He has excellent taste, and ridiculous amounts of stamina. In another life, with a twist of fate, he’d have made an talented Force user. The sort that uses the Force for nefarious, filthy purposes, obviously.

 

“Leave the ship, throw down any weapons you have.” Dayne paces forward, calculating. Oberyn idly wonders why they’d never slept together. So blond, and so muscular, and so tantalisingly Jedi. Surely their idiotic Code allows healthy sex sessions?

 

“Look, I don’t have weapons. And, this is really embarrassing, I can’t actually stand up. Sorry.” It could sound flippant, but the trembling note in the man’s speech speaks of truth.

 

“What is your name, Sith?” Up the steps to the cockpit, Dayne keeping his sabre in hand but the energy blade sheathed. His voice is freezing, hating, and just that little bit erotic. “Why are you in Dorne?”

 

“Oh thank everything, this is Dorne! I thought the navicomp might have gone wrong when they shot at me.”

 

“When who shot at you?” The Sword of Morning searches the vessel with a raking gaze and then steps back, holding his hand up with his fist clenched; nothing to be found. The Sith’s lips quirk slightly, and Oberyn realises, surprised, that the red-skinned man is terrified. He has never seen an Imperial with such fear blurring the edges, not even the spies that are sent on a semi-regular basis and end up defecting when they see how much better Dorne is than the Empire. Also Oberyn seduces them, which is a perk for both parties involved. He believes in giving a warm welcome, after all.

 

“They shot at me when I took the ship, but then I almost crashed into the cargo bay doors, and then I was on fire until I hyperjumped. Then I just prayed.”

 

Oberyn joins Dayne on the platform. Close to, the Sith is even prettier than he expected. Gold studs his throat, lies across his cheekbones and the fine tendrils at his jaw, yellow eyes nervously flicking from Arthur to widen even more at Martell’s appearance. A breedy, neat-framed Sith, no hulking brute of a warrior, but elegant in the shoulder and slender through the hip. Oberyn checks once more for a sabre; Inquisitors run to lean, the death mages of the Dark Side, like the Empress herself. A crack of lightning, or a Force choke, and that would be the end of them all.

 

“What the hell are you doing in Dorne, Sith?” The Sword of Morning shifts his grip upon the hilt of his weapon, leaning into the cockpit, intimidating. The man presses away, trying to squirm in the confines, because he is aware of who the blond Knight is. The entire galaxy is aware of this particular Jedi such is his fame and talent with a sabre. Dayne always serves Martell, always allied to the grand house of the citadel of water and cloud, or the fine golden palace of sand and wind in which Doran resides.

 

“Please don’t send me home?” His fingers, still clutching the controls, whiten at the knuckle. In the moment, he looks ridiculously young. Oberyn fields the urge to wrap him in a blanket and feed him cassius tea. Enemies of freedom are not doe-eyed men who seemed to need a reassuring hug. Unless the Sith is a consummate actor, and then they deserve to die. If he is playing a role, he is excellent in his deceit.

 

This really is confusing.

 

“Do you have a name, Sith?” Dayne casually brings Dawn into being, the blade white-blue and pure. He has a suspicion that his countryman enjoys the terror in a man’s eyes more than sex, which explains everything about Arthur, and makes Oberyn’s inability to seduce the Knight of Dorne perfectly understandable. He is probably the sort of Jedi who needs to bring his sword into the bedroom, and probably enjoys doing very kinky, very naughty things with that hilt.

 

“Tyrell. Lord Tyrell. Willas. Please don’t kill me! I’m not good with being killed.”

 

Ah. Not just a Sith. That Sith. 

 

”No wonder he can’t get out of the damned ship, my prince. He’s the cripple. The,” and Arthur’s voice sharpens, disgusted, ”scholar. No threat whatsoever, not even a warrior.” The Sword of Morning seems disappointed that he can’t pick a fight, and he whirls away with a shimmer of his star-painted cloak, stalking down the steps to liaise with Hotah.

 

“I prefer disabled,” Willas adds, softly. “Sorry.”

 

* * *

 

“Willas has gone and done what?” Tyrion, mostly drunk, lolls in the vast leather chair. Imperial Intelligence always has the best furniture, the best booze, the best company. No wonder he spends much of his time bitching with Whisperer and insulting the rest of his family.

 

“Dear Lord Tyrell stole a TIE fighter and managed to disappear from the face of the galaxy. Publically I am doing everything we can to locate our dear runaway Sith, but privately I am thrilled at his _chutzpah_. Willas is not a natural Sith; far too bleeding heart liberal. Did you know he doesn’t even enjoy having slaves? Reminds me of your brother, my dear. Apparently we are to be graced with the presence of a Stormtrooper captain who is to lead the rescue mission. It is all being spun as Willas being manipulated by the Rebel Alliance, but I would not like to be the poor boy when Olenna finally gets her Inquisitor hands about his throat.”

 

“Not like he isn’t obvious, either. Humans mostly blend in - unless you’re me,” he added, raising his glass. Varys copies the motion, crystal clinking. “Being a pureblood Sith with an Imp accent and that leg? It is as if he has a sign over him screaming ‘I’m Willas Tyrell. If found, please return to The Empress for bags of credits and all the spice you can inhale.’ Poor stupid little sod.” Jealousy blooms. If Willas has the balls, even if he is crippled, the very obvious grandson of the Empress, and the head of House Tyrell, surely Tyrion can do the same?

 

“Yes, unlike Jaime, he isn’t your usual beautiful blond who can charm his way into the hearts of many.”

 

Tyrion grins. “So, my big brother is beautiful?”

 

“I have eyes, dear, as does half of the galaxy.” The smoothly soft grey-blue face remains impassive, though twinkling.

 

“The great red creepy eyes, Varys. You know who’s beautiful? That Twi’lek in the cantina. The one with the massive lekku? I might ask her if she wants to dally on the Dark Side.” Tyrion leers, sloppily. Gorgeous yellowy skin, dark markings across her fine-boned face and her head tails? Gorgeous. 

 

“Her name is Shae.”

 

“One of yours?”

 

Varys’ smug expression confirms it. All the hot women, of all species, are undercover Imp agents.

 

“Do you ever dream of running away, Whisperer? Leaving the madness of King’s Landing and making for Hutt space? They’d love you. You’d be snapped up and a spymaster before you know it.” Drink makes him thoughtful, wistful, after travelling through the lusty stage of proceedings. He runs a finger around the rim of his goblet, making the glass sing sonorous and mournful. “Maybe when you find Jaime for me, I will bugger off and join him in his ridiculous yet romantic adventures. I shall be the wisecracking sidekick who gets all of the beautiful women. Come with me?”

 

“The Brotherhood and I are rather less than friends, Tyrion, and I am sickeningly safe here. I believe I’d be fed to a Sarlacc for their delectation. You, however, would be kept as a pet.”

 

“As long as I get to wear the gold slave-girl bikini, I’m fine with that. Anything but here.”

 

The agent’s plump blue hand, glittering with rings, presses across Tyrion’s own. “Are they being awful to you, darling?”

 

“If you could find a way to kill my lovely sister, I would appreciate it. Otherwise, find me Jaime? I don’t particularly think Tywin would mind if I defected, but I’d rather annoy Jaime whilst doing so.”

 

* * *

 

“I hate fucking Mon Calamari. Fucking Greyjoys. Get me some squid rings. Fried ones. In breadcrumbs. And kri’gee.”

 

“Sir, you seem tense.” The droid bleeps solicitously. “Is there anything else I can get sir to improve his mood?”

 

“Whores and spice. Blood of our foes.”

 

“Unfortunately, sir, I am unable to provide the latter.”

 

The RA-7 protocol unit minces off to find food, and Ramsay wonders about shooting one of the ridiculous bug-eyed optics from the infuriating metal head. Why Roose insists on non-humanoid staff, he has no idea. No, he does. Mostly they end up flayed, or dead, or pregnant, so it makes sense to remove the temptation from both Boltons. If he were Sith, his life would be so much easier. To be a Dark Lord, command the title of Darth - to be something other than the psychotic bastard son of a smuggling genius. Of course Ramsay knows he will inherit the crime syndicate come Roose’s inevitable and bloody demise, but he always craves more.

 

When he was seventeen, and almost as vicious as now, he stole a lightsabre from the hand of a dead Jedi. Determined to learn to use it, he managed to make the blade spark to life; purple, with a black core, and possibly the gayest thing he’d ever seen in his life, even more than protocol droids.

 

Of course he kept it.

 

It proves excellent for removing limbs, and cauterising at the same time, minimising death and blood loss. Sometimes prisoners need just to be punished, not dead. The sound it makes. The way he moves his hand and felt like the biggest bad-ass this side of the Wall Constellation. He practiced with it daily, until it became an extension of his arm, sheer bloody-mindedness combined with something he didn’t quite understand. Sometimes Ramsay wonders if he is latently Force-sensitive, but surely Roose would have sent him away to the Citadel for Sith training if that was the case?

 

Makes nice wank fodder though. Darth Sanguine and his reign of terror. Lots of blood, and really sexy clothing, and the death of his enemies.

 

The sound of a droid exploding brings him pause. A normal sound in the Bolton citadel, yes, but normally it is Ramsay doing the blowing up. Lightsabre in hand - seeing the weapon brings grown men to their knees with the horror of someone like him being a Sith, and he encourages their misbeliefs because he lives to taste their terror - he steps into the corridor.

 

His protocol unit smokes gently, pieces of black shrapnel embedded in the walls. Furious that he hasn’t been the lucky bastard to destroy the droid, and thrilled he doesn’t have to listen to the stupid whining voice, he pokes the metal corpse with his toe.

 

The man watching him smiles faintly, cybernetic eye focussing with a gentle whirr of electronics. Most of the left side of his body glitters with implants; scarring melting to scuffed steel, the tattooed arm definitely augmented, the other fully robotic from fingertips to shoulder. Whoever the man is, he is worth a shitload broken down into parts.

 

“I think you have something of mine.” Very calm, very relaxed. Especially for a burglar with the stupidity to break into the Dreadfort.

 

“I’ll fuck your shit up, that’s what’s yours!” He brings the sabre to life with a flick of his wrist, feeling the energy pour into his arm, chest, filling his head with that electrical flowing sense of ‘destroy’.

 

“If you are a Force user, then I am the Empress.”

 

“Say that when I cut your balls off, bitch.” Striding forward, snarling.

 

“Aren’t you cute?” Another of those fucking annoying smirks. The man sports a gold canine.

 

“I am not cute!”

 

“And short. Do they breed you Boltons to be midgets? Are you sure you’re not really Ewok, or Kushiban?”

 

Another hiss, white sharp teeth glittering. “You’re going to die. I’m going to kill you, then I’m going to salvage you, and then I’ll sell every bit of your fucking corpse on the black market, from eyeball to cock. But I’ll fuck your dead body first.”

 

“Of course you will.” The dual lightsabres blaze in the man’s scarred hands, as if summoned from nowhere. He realises, somewhat belatedly, that the blades are purple and black and exactly the same as the one in his own grasp. What he remembers, with even more delay that could possibly be slightly fatal, that men with lightsabres tend to be Force users. Lack of attractive clothing, all dull browns and scuffed leathers, signals this man must be Jedi. The worst part of it all, even more than that, was the man had definitely been dead when Ramsay stole the sabre hilt. He knows that because he’d shot this man in the eye socket - the one from where the glowing LED lights of the cybernetic eye now shone - to make sure.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” Fuck.

 

“I got better.” Easily, as if death is something to shake off.

 

Ramsay decides on offensiveness being the greatest idea since the hyperdrive.

 

“You’ve got the gayest lightsabre, you cocksucking Jedi whore!”

 

The man’s expression remains pure and focussed and so fucking Jedi code that it makes Ramsay nauseous, but the little smile curves slightly, amused.

 

“If I win, you’re coming with me. You are ridiculously amusing. If I lose, you get to sodomise my corpse as you wish. Deal?”

 

Ramsay launches himself, compact and muscular, and shoulder slams the Jedi. It is like colliding with a brick wall. Bouncing off, he rolls with it, leaping over the lazy sweep of a purple blade, and going for the usual kick to the bollocks.

 

“Your technique is very gauche.” The Jedi laughs. Is laughing. At him.

 

“Fuck you!” Lashing out, anger blazing. He twists under the man’s arm, his own sabre whirling and screeching as blade meets blade.

 

“If you use your shoulder more, you’ll have a better arc. You’ve a good centre of gravity, but your anger gets the better of you.”

 

“Preaching Jedi bitch! No wonder the Sith fucked your shit up! You’re just a bunch of poncy hippies in dresses who think everyone shouldn’t have sex. No wonder you’re dying out!” The buzzing in his head grows louder, and painful, rage screaming and burning every nerve ending and singing death in his head, and holy shit it hurts, and he tries to fling the pain away with a snap of his free hand, and a moment later the Jedi catapults into the wall, hard enough to send his teeth clacking and head whiplashing back.

 

Ramsay stares at his fingers. They tingle.

 

What the actual fuck?

 

The Jedi watches him, honey-golden eye hooded, still with that infuriating smile playing across his scarred mouth.

 

“So, how long have you been a Force sensitive? You can call me Empress, by the way, since I was wrong about you. Or Master Beric, whichever you prefer.”

 

“Master, my arse!”

 

“Only if you want me to.” Beric plucks Ramsay’s sabre from his shocked limp fingers, sheaths all three weapons, and attaches them to his belt. For a moment they glare at each other, or at least Ramsay does whilst this Beric remains collected and vaguely smug, before the man does something with his hand that sends the boiling hate that nestles and breeds in Bolton’s raving soul to cool soothing calm.

 

“You are coming with me.”

 

That seems perfectly reasonable. What a nice Jedi. Handsome, and clever, and such excellent cybernetics. Tall. Nice. Definitely a good idea to go with him. He wonders about snuggling up to him and asking for a back rub, and a cuddle, but that would be very silly. No, best to go with the nice scarred Jedi and do whatever he wants, because it all makes sense now. He must go with the Jedi and be with him. Because that is how it is. No idea why, it just is.

 

And that is how Ramsay Bolton, who is the Dark Side of any sort of moon, becomes Padawan for Beric Dondarrion, Knight of the Rebellion and Avoider of Death.

 

It all turns rather nasty when Ramsay learns about the Jedi Mind Trick.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, Mandalorians are the all inclusive ancient cultural collective, not the Clone Wars New Mandalorians who seem to be human. 
> 
> Just so that makes sense. Because otherwise this fic could get really confusing.

* * *

 

 

 

“So, where’d you get the cargo?” Clegane stretches his legs, his usual bandolier hooked across the back of his co-pilot seat. He has several, in case a situation needs all of the ammunition. Some of them are for when he’s trying to impress a woman with the size of his guns. Something hot steams in a mug he props upon the console, placed over several months worth of sticky cup rings. “More importantly - what’s in the fucking cargo?”

 

Jaime shrugs, comfortable and settled, drinking his own spiced Nysillim tea. Clegane favours Kosh, black, no sugar, or thick caf the consistency of frill syrup. One arm lays along the window ledge of  _ Oath _ , the other lazy on the flight sticks. In another life, in a galaxy a long time in the future and far far away, he’d look as if he is driving a pick-up truck. There possibly would be a highly illegal beer cracked open. Clegane would wear a hat with a tractor embroidered on the front. On the radio a woman would be wailing about marrying her cousin after her previous husband died during a tragic shooting accident, with added banjos.

 

“Some man said to deliver it to Storm’s End, so we’re delivering it to Storm’s End, like the good smuggler boys we are. Paid us a boatload of credits to do so.”

 

“But you don’t know what the shit we’re smuggling is? Fuck’s sake, twatface, it could be spice for all you cunting know, you penis.” They have standards. It is best if Jaime doesn’t get picked up by anyone. But mostly they have standards.

 

“Would Stannis Baratheon, Jedi Master, all round tight-arse and the most moral man in the universe, order a massive box of drugs?”

 

“Never know with Jedi. I’m going to look.” Clegane heaves himself up, finds a handy crowbar, stomps menacingly into the interior of the ship. Everything he does is accompanied with a healthy dose of menace.

 

“We can’t deliver damaged goods, you arsehole!”

 

“We won’t deliver certain shit, you know that Lannister.” No spice. No slaves. No fresh produce.

 

“Fine. Fine. Whatever.” Switching to autopilot and checking their course, he joins his colleague in the cramped space of the cargo bay. Most see the area as paltry, but, as every good smuggler knows, it pays to have false interior walls. No smuggler worth his salt avoids maximising hidden space within their vessel. It does, however, mean finding random stowaways and losing stuff on a regular basis. Once they found a young girl and a BB unit, dropped her off in the Essosian Belt with a handful of credits and one of Jaime’s spare blasters. She babbled something about valor, glared murderously, and disappeared into the spaceport on Braavos.

 

The heavy chest looms, metal-bound and clasped, and Clegane doesn’t even bother to see if they can unlock the bloody thing without violence. Like always. Two swift jabs of the crowbar, and the trunk shatters open.

 

“Oh look, a dangerous droid, really to kill us all. It could attack at any time. Help me. I am terrified. See. This is my terrified face.” The MSE-6 lies nestled in a big tangle of that bubbly plastic wrap. Jaime steals a piece, starts popping. It is ecstasy.

 

“Lannister, being a sarcastic fuckmonkey doesn’t suit you.”

 

“Course it does, it’s my default setting.” Pop. Pop.

 

The mouse droid lies dormant and slightly dented, Jaime poking it with a carbon-tipped finger. It does nothing. No fancy lights, no whirring, just nothing whatsoever.

 

“That’s disappointing. Also strange. Why are we taking a MSE-6 to Stannis Baratheon?” Pop. He finishes that piece, grabs another.

 

Clegane fishes the little robot out, and examines it with a critical master craftsman’s eye. He runs his hands across the outer shell, before frowning, twisting, and removing the thin layer of carbonide. Underneath the circuitry seems solid enough to Jaime, who has no idea about anything engineering based, but his co-pilot appears slightly on edge. 

 

“Screwdriver.”

 

“It’s like working with a shouty medic, Clegane. Shall I mop your brow and keep the place sterile? Shall I go and get the nurse outfit on? Stockings or bare legs, do you think?”

 

“Cunt. This is not right, something’s up with this droid. Someone’s tampered. Hopefully it’s not a fucking bomb, because if it’s a fucking bomb, we’re fucking fucked.” The number of fucks increases exponentially as Clegane’s ire, tension, or fear rise. When they almost got blasted out of the sky by one of the vast Empire Star Destroyers that one time, he’d said nothing but cunt for fully fifteen minutes. Fuck indicates a medium level of alert.

 

“So work it out, genius.” Clegane is nothing if not brilliant with machinery. Given any problem, he can solve it within hours, especially if it calls for several rolls of duct tape, lots of hammering, and swearing. Soldering and other delicate jobs tend to be too much of a chore, but he does them, bitching constantly, demanding beer, cigarettes, and once, tackling an extremely incalcitrant heating circuit, a Togruta hooker waiting at the end.

 

“There. Got you, you shitbag. This shouldn’t be there.” He indicates a switch with an oil-stained fingernail.

 

“Can I press it?”

 

“Haven’t you fucking learned not to press buttons?”

 

Jaime grins, wide and white-teethed and bastardly, and flicks it.

 

For a moment nothing happens, which is both disappointing and really bloody fantastic, until, finally, a faint beam of holographic light shimmers from a hidden lense and starts to play a short video clip.

 

“It’s not porn.” His co-pilot sounds curiously peeved.

 

“Nope.”

 

The woman, silvered and tiny, kneels.

 

“Oi, it could be porn.” Clegane perks.

 

“Please, Stannis Baratheon, you are my only hope.” Nice accent, definitely Northern. From the clothes the girl runs towards the aristocratic, covered in furs and elegant robes. Long hair of indeterminable colour twist in intricate braids down her slender back, and she holds her hands supplicatingly.

 

“She’s fucking cute,” Clegane rumbles. “Think she’s worth rescuing?” An edge in his voice sets Jaime’s eyebrows rising “Credits, weaselcock. Credits. Not because I’ve got some cunting need to rescue pretty girls in distress, you fuckmeister.”

 

“Your language gets worse when you’re trying to stave off an erection. Who is she?”

 

They crowd nearer, squinting at the tiny figure as the hologram loops. Furs and dress, yes. Northern, yes. Weird hairstyle, definitely posh. He flicks through an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the enemies of the Empire, considering, before Jaime cranes his neck, gives a triumphant cluck, punching his co-pilot on his heavily muscled forearm.

 

“Stark, one of the Starks. I can see the wolf embroidered on her tits.”

 

“Don’t you fucking look at her perfect cunting tits you fucking neanderthal Sith-bred pervert!”

 

“...it’s going to be like that, isn’t it? You see some rich beauty in peril, and you’re off across the bloody galaxy like your arse is on fire because she might give you a kiss if you save her from raging Bantha, or whatever? It’s like with that fat Frey girl that you thought your brother kidnapped, then it just turned out they were getting married, and he burned the shit out of your face for trying to shoot him in the head, and then Bolton turned up and it all went to shit because apparently she was supposed to marry him. Clegane, do you ever learn? Really? Women just want to take and take, never give back. There are no good women in this sector of space. They are either nutjobs, stupid, or Cersei. Actually, she’s all three, isn’t she?”

 

“Least I didn’t fuck my sister, Lannister.” Glowing eyes bore into him, unamused.

 

“Least I’m human,” he shoots back. “Let’s get this to Baratheon, see what His Highness Lord Jedi Master of Stick Up the Arse Stanny Baby gives us as a reward.”

 

* * *

 

“My lord?”

 

Stannis meditates; the pale golden light caresses, surrounds, and he kneels with his hands resting lightly on his thighs, the intricately embroidered mat sited in the specially-created chamber comforting under his middle-aged knees. Everything in the room is cream, to promote Jedi values, because Master Baratheon needs all the help he can get. Serenity does not come naturally. Neither does peace. Passion plagues, Sith-ily; the emotions that haunt his waking moments roil. A man at war with his nature, the Jedi lives as aesthetic a life as possible in order to keep himself as sharp and honed as any weapon of justice. Vengeance. Every moment is a struggle to maintain an iron-grip upon the Light that Stannis refuses to let go of. Few others battle so valiantly to remain good, to not give in to the easy, rather preferring to remain righteous.

 

Much of that is obviously Davos’ fault.

 

Even there, tired and rumpled, Seaworth provokes feelings of deep regard in Stannis’ chest. The shortened fingertips that play across his lips, the ancient smuggler tattoos inked by Zabrak into his shoulders and upper arms. The general worn untidiness of the man. The kindness in his eyes, the generosity of spirit and soul. The beard.

 

By the Force, that beard.

 

“Seaworth?” That glow fades slowly, lingering for the last moment in Stannis’ eyes, before he slowly pulls himself to his feet, wrapping himself in his robes.

 

Meditation is always best done naked. Davos never seems to mind.

 

“It is here, my lord.”

 

“Finally. It has taken long enough.” He catches the look upon Davos’ face, and frowns. “Yes?”

 

“Best you come and see, Stannis. I’m not sure of this whatsoever.”

 

*****

 

A human and a Zabrak huddle around the crate. The latter is huge, even for a member of his race, burn tissue skewing his face, long black hair tied back and punctured with gleaming bone-pale horns. The usual tattoos curve across his cheeks, ruined by the severe scarring; even Shireen is not as marred as the smuggler who looks vaguely pissed off with the entire world. He, however, is not the issue.

 

The other? Well.

 

“Lannister?” Force take the man.

 

“Stannis.” A nod, a wariness. The last time they met, Jaime Lannister, apprentice to Darth Castamere, was possessing the full complement of hands, a vicious black-red crystalled lightsabre, and crackled with the Dark Side of the Force. The man before him seems disconcertingly normal, and Stannis pushes lightly, touching Lannister’s mind, before he is forced back with a slamming of mental portals and an internal glare. The Force still lingers, still twists in a blackened Sith-tainted mass, but it tastes different in his split-second investigation. Not as red and black and violent, not as thickly cloying, like tar. Different. He tries to quantify, but find himself burning in silence, unable to compute.

 

“They have the droid you were looking for,” Davos interjects in his mild mannered way, steering Stannis away from the possibility of thrusting Lightbringer into the Sith’s chest. “They are the smugglers, my Lord.”

 

Lannister? Smuggler?

 

“I can explain-”

 

“Yes. You will.” He palms his lightsabre, noting the handsome blond - because no idiot in the galaxy can describe Jaime Lannister as anything but those words, though there are other, more choice, phrases to be had - does nothing, but the pet Zabrak checks the safety catches on his twin blaster pistols. Huge and menacing he may be, but no smuggler can battle a trained Jedi and survive. Idiot humanoid. “Quickly, before I lose my patience.”

 

“Well, it’s a long story,” Lannister says, his hands at a pacifying chest height, palms out. “Really bloody long. So long that you’d get bored, so we’ll just leave this chest with you and be on our merry way, won’t we, Clegane?”

 

Lightbringer ignites, sings, and the wielder of the legendary blade arches an eyebrow.

 

“It’s like being stared at by one of the academy masters in the bloody Citadel,” Lannister grumbles, carbonite and plasteel hand pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Are you going to put me in detention, sir, or is it six of the best?”

 

“You have not changed one iota, apprentice.” Arrogant boy. Even if Lannister isn’t that much younger than Stannis, he seems it. Perhaps the Dark Side promotes more sleep and better health regimes along with being insufferably childish?

 

“Apart from being not being an apprentice, instead replacing that with the glorious life of the criminal fugitive, and missing a hand, you’re probably right.”

 

“...you are no longer Tywin’s protege?” No wonder his mind feels different.

 

“No, again, really funny story that. You’ll have to ask my twin about His Darthness these days. Not us, we’ll be goin-”

 

“Explain, damn you, before I lose my temper!”

 

“Really, have you ever thought of being Sith, Stannis? All that pent-up rage isn’t Jedi, is it? You’d look good in black, very stoic and manly.”

 

“If you would answer his question?” Davos smiles faintly, just a showing of his teeth, and for some bloody reason Lannister listens to the smuggler. He never understands why Seaworth can get others to talk just by being reasonable and friendly. It shakes every foundation, and makes Stannis rather self-conscious about his own personality. Robert did the same, and Renly-

 

Thinking of Renly slashes, vicious and deep.

 

“Captain Seaworth, an honor,” rumbles the Zabrak. His voice is like coal burning over plasma, a rumbling thing that can shake buildings. The accent is so thick that Stannis finds it hard to understand anything the man says, almost like a rough low growl of noise. Almost Wookiee. “Fucking legend that you are, sir.”

 

“All behind me these days, I serve a greater cause.” The fondness in Davos’ voice makes Baratheon’s stomach knot, an embarrassed flush burn his neck. He has spoken with his lover about this far too often, telling him that their relationship must remain private, and at this point Stannis is convinced that the man just enjoys watching him squirm. 

 

Making up for such transgressions is, however, a very pleasing pastime.

 

“Stannis, Jedi, or Rebellion?” Lannister grins.

 

“All three. Would you like something to eat or drink?”

 

*****

 

“So I left. There’s nothing left for me with the family, apart from my little brother, and I rather get out before Daddy dearest decides I am too weak and feeble to be allowed to live. Compassion is far too Jedi for Tywin. Pretended I was off to slaughter some innocents, jumped ship at Pentos, and found Sandy looking for a partner.”

 

The Zabrak eats like a man possessed, all sharp teeth and glowing orange eyes. Unlike the usual brown-skinned type that Davos is used to, this one, this Clegane, is the colour of blood. He rips the meat from the bone with a singular hunger, and talks with his mouth full.

 

It makes Stannis twitch, and that is amusing. He hates appalling table manners almost as much as poor grammar.

 

It is not that Davos is cruel to his Jedi. Not at all, and he is very aware that Stannis is a trained warrior with years of experience, and he himself is an aging ex-smuggler with a slightly shaky gun hand and a taste for a less hectic life. This does not mean that he cannot have his fun with his rigidly repressed Baratheon, this gentle teasing. Nothing physical of course, no practical jokes. No, just a little comment here and there to see that blush flood the back of Stannis’ neck, just where the kisses are peppered every morning and evening in the blessed privacy of their quarters.

 

“Stupid cunt doesn’t use his fucking sabre.”

 

“Oh?” Interesting.

 

“Screw the Force,” Lannister replies cheerfully, green eyes over-bright, the man deep in his goblet of a mediocre Rhoynar white. 

 

“You are chosen by the Force, you cannot abandon it.” Stannis looks suitably headmasterly again, and Davos wonders if they can transfer that to the bedroom after Lannister and his henchman leave. “The Force is within all of us, even those who decided to forsake their destiny. You could train under me-”

 

The Zabrak sniggers, as does Lannister. Refreshingly juvenile in this serious palace of Baratheon mourning. There should be more laughter, more lightness. Davos tries to tempt smiles from Stannis and Shireen, and his daughter blossoms a little more each day, but tension, sadness, and an unsettling hunger for vengeance overwhelms. He worries, so very much, that his Jedi will follow the Darkest of paths in his lust for revenge. For Robert’s death, and Renly-

 

Stannis sighs, martyred, rubbing his temples. “You would be my apprentice, if you so wished, and I would be willing to train you in the Ways of the Jedi, so help me. You display a flagrant disregard for rules and regulations, you have a disappointingly perverse mind. You think that the Force is something that can be avoided, like death, or old age. However, you show reasonable dedication to something that is not the Sith. You were, before you lost your hand, adequate as a warrior-”

 

“Adequate? I almost beat your arse, Stannis, or have you forgotten? Me, a mere apprentice, you, a Jedi Knight, and I almost got you.”

 

The blue glare is implacable. “You are arrogant, foolish, idiotic, egotistical. You possess a modicum of intelligence but do not display this; you rather play the clown than a man of talent and ambition. All you wish to be is a fighter, a weapon, a tool, because you have never been told that you could be so much more. Your father lacks any capability of showing you he is proud, for he is the sort of man who would drive his children to madness rather than tell them they have done well.”

 

Jaime blinks. Davos sees that Stannis is in his mind, rummaging in that blunt manner of his, and Lannister, tipsy, has no way of blocking the intrusion. No delicacy for the Force use of the Lightbringer. He is efficient, exacting, and a little like a fist to the nose. The battle between them rages, unseen, even if Seaworth cannot tell. He just knows; eighteen years he has been at Stannis’ side. He understands his Jedi more than Baratheon admits.

 

“I could forge you into something greater than your father, Jaime. I could take your raw state and create something that could defend a galaxy from the Dark Side.”

 

Everything is silent now, apart from Clegane’s endless munching. The man snags a bantha steak from Lannister’s plate with his fork, taking advantage of the situation in his own inimitable way.

 

“No. I’m done with all that shit.”

 

Stannis’ expression does not change.

 

“Then you and your friend shall leave.”

 

“What about the hot Stark girl?” Clegane licks his fingers, eyelids half-closed with pleasure. “She needs rescuing, and she’s fucking lovely.”

 

“Sandor, what have I told you about damsels in distress?” Jaime rubs his forehead. He looks exhausted in a moment, shadowed under the eyes the instant his facade crumbles just that little bit. He looks like a man lost somewhere, who has had a Master Jedi probe his mind, who has heard words that he didn’t wish to hear. It is easy to feel sorry for the man, even if his past is filled with blood and death and hatred. He looks like someone’s son, in that moment, who really needs a Dad. A proper Dad, not Tywin Lannister.

 

Stannis has told him that he can’t look after the entire galaxy; that hatred cannot be combatted by hugs, long fatherly chats, and kind understanding. That, of course, does not stop Seaworth trying.

 

“Davos?”

 

“My Lord?”

 

“Have the network find where Sansa is being held captive. I think our smuggler associates have volunteered for a rescue mission.”

 

“Another fine mess you’ve got me into, Clegane, you bastard.” Jaime stares into his goblet. He looks as if he needs a hug. Davos itches to reach over and envelop him, but stays his arms.

 

The Zabrak shrugs, and helps himself to the carafe of wine.

 

* * *

 

“Captain. Do sit, my dear.”

 

“No thank you, Whisperer. I prefer to stand.”

 

She is immense, and frightfully proper. Unlike the other Stormtroopers her armour is mirror-polished reflective plastoid, as suits her status as the top-ranking officer within the regiment attached to the Lannister family, the Red Keep, Crownlands space. Everything about the woman is perfectly placed, and effortlessly efficient. She is the sort that shines her gear daily, in the correct manner with several cloths and abrasives, for the requisite time, and lines all of the pieces neatly on a stand. No just chucking her weapon and outfit in corner. No neglecting of duty for the Captain; she is regulation, and rules, and a person apart.

 

“Lord Tyrion.” A short, effective greeting. She stands at parade rest, feet a shoulder width apart, back straight, chin raised, hands behind her back. Tyrion wants to see what she looks like without the helmet on. If her voice is to be believed, Captain Tarth is possibly the sexiest thing in the citadel apart from that Twi’lek barmaid he makes eyes at.

 

And sometimes Varys, when Tyrion is seriously drunk.

 

“A pleasure, Captain Tarth.” Varys wafts, synth silk robes in that royal purple he loves swirling dramatically. He has a Sith-like flair for exhibition; thankfully, for the sake of the universe, he is lacking the necessary Force sensitivity. “Fixer tells me that she has briefed you in regards to locating the defector, Jaime Lannister. May I say that it is indeed reassuring that someone with your skill and dedication will be undertaking this task.”

 

“It is my duty and my honour, Whisperer.”

 

Droids have more personality than this particular Stormtrooper. But, he supposes, Stormtroopers aren't supposed to display individuality. They are, after all, a hive mind in appallingly bland armour.

 

“We have traced him to the Rebel sectors; he seems to have links to Brotherhood space. The Hutt would be thrilled to have a Sith, even a partially trained one since their Jedi turned rogue. The issue, my dear, is that we all know that Jaime is a capable warrior, weeks from being promoted from apprentice to Lord. Perhaps his father’s belief in his abilities was too much for Jaime, perhaps the mantle of a place within the structural hierarchy of our Sith overlords was overwhelming - we do not know. We have been tasked to locate him, Captain. You shall do this. You shall win his trust. You shall return him alive. I am entrusting you with his capture.”

 

“Whisperer,” and her voice is low and pleasantly husky, “is this not a task more suited for an Imperial Agent, perhaps a Cypher? I am a soldier. I am capable of the capture, but the other parts-?”

 

“That is why this is such a splendid plan, dear girl.” Varys pats a shining plated arm, leaving finger prints. “Jaime is an astute boy. He knows my agents almost as well as I do. You, however, are a faceless cog in an eternal machine. He knows nothing of you; your face, your background, your personality. You are a blank datapad upon which I scribe my machinations. You are the most trustworthy of us all, with your notions of honour. You are no callow girl to be seduced by a pretty face, my dear Captain. You are far too sensible. Unfortunately, amongst even my most dedicated agents, there is a liking for Jaime. He is charming, and handsome. You are as a droid, Tarth. You are incorruptible.”

 

“Also we really want to see your face,” Tyrion adds, sipping wine.

 

She breaths in through her nose, before she nods, just once, very smartly.

 

“If it is required of me, Whisperer, if the Darth wishes me to undertake the mission, I am honour-bound to accept.” 

 

“Good girl. Take that helmet off and let us see what we’re dealing with.” 

 

She does.

 

It is...disappointing.

 

Captain Tarth may possess a lovely voice, and an incredible body - any fool can see that, even under the armour - but there is a reason why the woman is a Stormtrooper rather than a regular Imperial soldier.

 

Varys, however, seems pleased. He stalks about the unfortunate woman, taking in the scarred cheek, terrible teeth, faded straw-like hair, the battered nose, the general air that surrounds her. “You are unlike all of my other spies, my dear Captain. You are perfect; no one would suspect a woman with your physical attributes of being an undercover agent.”

 

“I find it difficult to lie, Whisperer.”

 

“You do not have to lie, Captain. You just have to omit the truth.”

 

“If it is required of me, Whisperer, I shall attempt to do as you request.” To her credit she stares straight ahead with astonishingly lovely blue eyes, gaze fixed on a point seven feet from the plushly carpeted floor. Obviously she is uncomfortable, and finds the idea of being undercover highly distasteful because, after all, she is a woman of integrity, but the Empire demands her sacrifice, and she is oathbound to serve.

 

* * *

 

Ramsay tries to kill the Jedi. It is the fourth time in three days. 

 

Beheading didn’t work. Poison didn’t touch the man. Drowning came back to bite Bolton on the arse.

 

A swift stabbing whilst Dondarrion bathes, he decides. He can have a shower afterwards to clean up. All of his favourite murders have taken place in bathrooms.

 

“Shoulders, Ramsay, remember to use your shoulders. Try and remember your lessons?” Beric sighs. He is half-naked and dripping wet after being interrupted in the bath, a towel wrapped about his muscular hips. “You need a massage, for that tension will be the death of you. We will find somewhere discreet. Lys is renowned, we’ll go there.”

 

“Fuck off and let me kill you!” He swipes again, vibrosword cleaving air. Beric has confiscated the lightsabre and is forcing him to use this stupid practice sword. He has tried wiring a more powerful generator into the piece, but managed to set the table on fire instead.

 

“I cannot fuck off while you try and kill me, that is a contradiction in terms. You really are such an angry little ball of tension.” A shake of his head, hair cascading across his scarred shoulders. Beric’s cybernetic arm lies detached upon the floor, wrapped in plastic sheeting; the delicate circuits hate being near damp. He explained about internal electrocution after Ramsay threw a bucket of water over him in a fit of bloody-minded rage, and everything started crackling in a fascinating, dangerous manner.

 

He deserved being Force held to the wall for five hours for that, he admits, as Beric carefully replaced the burned out fuses and soldered melted wiring one-handedly, talking at length about the Light Side, fire, and the dawn of a new era within the galaxy. Seriously. Religious nutcases are less fanatic than this fucking Jedi when he goes off on one.

 

Beric removes his towel, steps back into the steaming tub without a care in the world, ignoring the snarling Padawan sullying his relaxation.

 

Ramsay hates him. He hates him with every fibre of his body and soul. How Beric taunts him by calling him cute and sweet and adorable, like he is not a mass-murdering psychopath with a tendency towards torture and sex, mostly at the same time. How Dondarrion presses buttons, mentions his height, heritage, and illegitimacy. How the he uses the Force to subdue without even making an effort. How he stands there, with his million credit implants, and teaches about the beauty of the soul, the wonder of life, how all creatures, great and small, are part of this glorious whole and that is why all should be loved..

 

Apart from when there is fire around.

 

Beric gets weird around fire, almost Sith, and he looks at Ramsay with that eye that darkens from gold to flame, and that blazing and obsessive stare is possibly the one thing in the galaxy that can intimidate Bolton to silence. When something burns, so does Dondarrion.  

 

Confusing. Not exactly the Light Side of the Force. He talks it, walks it, lives it, but every so often something seems to go very wrong somewhere within Beric. Probably, Ramsay reflects, because he stabbed the Jedi in the face with a lightsabre. All those implants and cybernautics can’t be doing the man any favours whatsoever. Brain damage. Trauma.

 

“You really do have the most fascinating imagery in your head.” Ramsay forces himself to stop thinking about taking a cut throat razor to the back of Beric’s neck, hacking the electronics out, selling his corpse to the Brotherhood. Dondarrion watches him, that infuriating half-smirk soft upon his mouth. “It is lucky I got to you before any Sith in the area discovered you. Given what you are at this moment in time, you would have been darkest of the Sith Lords. Sorry for rescuing your soul from eternal damnation.”

 

“Why don’t you take me to the Citadel and drop me off, so I can get some real education? Bitch.”

 

“Your repartee is appalling. Also, do stop trying to think of ways to murder me when I am having a bath?” Ramsay snarls, feels his body flush, feels the unwanted intrusion. Bastard. The fingers in his head, softly caressing and squirmily erotic, prod with fascination. He has tried to stab Beric before for this exploration, this unwanted and unwelcome incursion into his mind. The Jedi just kept smiling, gently, before wrapping ghostly tendrils about his optic nerves, squeezing to the point where his world turned grey.

 

He was blind for forty minutes after that.

 

Beric Dondarrion is not a nice man. He is something different, something tainted perhaps. He talks of the Light, he walks in the Path of the Jedi, but Ramsay is convinced there is something seriously fucked up in that man’s head. For all his talk, a Knight kills, just like the Warrior; and at least the Sith isn’t a fucking hypocrite about it, going around preaching this peace, love, and adoration for all humanoid-kind bollocks. Being Sith is far more straightforward, so it seems.

 

Sith is so much cooler.

 

Ramsay throws his vibrosword at the Jedi and stalks from the chamber. It falls into the bath with a resounding plonky splash, and he doesn’t get to enjoy Beric’s expression tightening as he is electrocuted once more.

 

* * *

 

He is reading, tucked into his chair with a datapad, when the Viper sweeps into his cell. Unlike others, far more barbarous and ill-refined, in places that are utterly uncivilised, the Martell clan seems to believe in keeping their prisoners in utmost luxury. Willas has never witnessed anything so plush, so incredibly extravagant. His own chambers at Highgarden tended towards the workmanlike, the sort of rooms that scribes and scholars inhabited. This, however. This suite is beautifully furnished, elegant, and serene, overlooking the intricate fountains of the Water Gardens. From his vantage point near the balcony he sees the Sand Snakes - he asked the Jedi about the young ladies, and Dayne answered pointedly, hatingly - race and dart. One, well-built and terrifying, whirls a vibrospear about her body in powerful ritual. Two others, pretty as a picture, talk languidly in the warm sunshine, and three, younger, Twi’lek, one almost still a babe, splash carefree.

 

He knows - knew - a daugher of the Red Viper. Tyene Martell, the apprentice and lover of Addam Marbrand, one of few Sith that Willas actively likes. Liked. He still does like the man. He isn’t quite sure if their friendship will have endured Tyrell’s defection. He often dined with Master and pupil, desperate for some company, some interaction. The crippled grandson of the Empress, useless in more ways than his physical disability, was never a popular figure; what is the point being close to a man who cannot influence a damned thing, even if he is Olenna’s blood? Nothing in it for anyone, at all, and Lord Tyrell understands that. Such is the Sith way. Such is ambition in a hierarchy where following the wrong Lords can be death.

 

“Prince Oberyn.” Willas struggles to stand, swaying very slightly, before catching at the arm of his chair to steady himself. Sitting sends his limbs stiff, even though his seat is most comfortable. “My apologies, I was absorbed in a book. Your library is vast - I have never seen such an array of works.”

 

“Ah, it is an honour to have someone so fascinated in them. My daughters are, mostly, not literary types. Sit. I have ordered wine.” He takes the padded couch opposite Tyrell’s ornate armchair, curling into the softness like some great Manka cat, or Cathar. Prince Oberyn moves with the sleek ease of a man in perfect harmony with his body, and that in itself is intimidating. The reputation for the man with a spear, or poison, is widely known throughout the Empire. Many of the Sith toxins originate in Dorne; Tears of the Martell for assassins, Mother’s Milk for biological warfare, Affide crystal for suicide.

 

He knows more of the last than he cares to admit.

 

“Thank you.” Willas lowers himself carefully, the usual wince as muscles pull and his knee complains. The warmth of Dorne seems to help, a little. His doctor, a rather alarming human named Evazan, always implied amputation would be necessary, but then he found out the healer was wanted in at least twelve star systems for being both a murderer and a lunatic. Somehow Willas was not surprised. “I have met your daughter, my lord. She is a most accomplished young woman.”

 

“Tyene?” A nod of affirmation. “She is determined that she shall be Sith. Her mother was a priestess. Who would have thought her daughter could fall so deep, Tyrell? Such is the call of the Force, yes?”

 

“I,” and Willas swallows very delicately, heart thrumming uncomfortably in his chest, “would not know, my lord.”

 

“You do not-?”

 

“No, my lord. I do not.” A cripple, and about as sensitive to the Force as a gaffii stick to the forehead. Quite the disappointment, is young Lord Tyrell, and he feels every dripping venomous sneer of his Grandmother; without a taste for the Dark Side, and Willas has never been anywhere near to darkness, he is nothing but an embarrassing failure. Margaery pities, and even though he loves his sister, she is selfish and self-absorbed, the perfect heir for Olenna to hew to her own image. Loras is young, impulsive, drunk upon his giddying powers, unaware his snickering hurts, cuts deep. Garlan has made Moff, governs Oldtown and Stepstones fairly and justly - he and Willas are the most alike of all the siblings. Garlan cannot use a lightsabre either, but at least he has a use, a purpose. A body that works.

 

“Ah. I did not know that.”

 

“No one knows, my lord.” A filthy secret, kept hidden from view, both him and his lack of Force sensitivity. Willas spent his days in scholarly pursuits, in science and cryobiology, in writing letters to Garlan and quietly helping his young brother rule in a manner not quite Tyrell. Rather more restrained, almost enlightened.

 

The subject stings, and weighs heavy, and he changes it with a dip of his head.

 

“You have many daughters?” Oberyn allows the question with a charming wave of his hand; they are both very aware that Willas is a prisoner, a danger, a possible intruder into the sanctity of free and independent Dorne, but there are standards to maintain.

 

“I have eight. My beautiful Sand Snakes, so brave and fierce. Elia trains with Dayne, for she tastes the Light. Tyene is the Darkness, and just as lovely. Obara is a warrior, true and strong. Nymeria shall conquer men with her beauty. Sarella - sweetness and spice. My youngest three are still so very young, have not yet grown fully from the nursery.”

 

“Their mother must be a great and noble lady.” He has not seen any wife of Martell, and is only vaguely aware of a scandalous reputation. To a man desperate for freedom, to escape the chains of familial disappointment and terrible darkness, Dorne seems so true, so wonderful and marvellous. The last fully independent kingdom in the galaxy. Romantic, yes, but now he is here Willas understands why so many speak so warmly of the City of Water, the desert planet beneath. 

 

“Their mothers were, yes.”

 

Oh. Almost foot in mouth there. He manages to avoid it, just, by dint of Oberyn Martell’s graciousness.

 

“Your daughters are very handsome, my lord. I have seen them in the gardens.” That sounds wrong, and he flails internally, fighting for words that make it sound rather less like he is leching on the children of Prince Oberyn. “Not that I am leering at them. No, I wouldn’t! Just they seem so happy, and carefree. I really would not look upon your daughters in any way that would not be befitting their status as princesses of Dorne.”

 

Force’s sake. He’s made it worse! He is an idiot sometimes. No. Most of the time. Shut up, Willas!

 

* * *

 

Darkness, and the faint humming of a ship’s engines. She runs her fingers over cold bare metal, tasting through her touch. They blindfolded her, took her weapon. They tied her wrists, and her ankles, secure but not cruel, before leaving her in this black cell deep in the bowels of this-?

 

She listens, head turned to one side. 

 

“Cruiser?” The slight throb and catch of the sound, muffled and deep, the way the hyperdrive whines.

 

Imperial.

 

She almost swears, but bites that back with a click of teeth upon her tongue.

 

What do they want with her? She is incognito, or, at least, she thought she was. Perhaps betrayal from within, the same that doomed Father and Mother? Leaks, and cracks, and tiny splits that widen and widen until everything falls to pieces.

 

She kicks the bulkhead in frustration, then finally does squeak out a soft ‘bugger’ as her toes crunch in her soft shoes.

 

The light, when it comes, is dazzling even through the fabric across her eyes. A whimper, and then she is picked up as if she is made of nothing, armour pressing painfully into her lightly-dressed torso, and carried off. She tries to remember the twists and turns, but there are too many. Too many, before she is, finally, deposited in a room that smells infinitely less musty than the supply room in which she has previously been locked.

 

Massive hands remove the blindfold, and she squints in pain as whiteness stabs. The quarters - and this is a suite, with a bed, and a comfortable chair, a small refresher chamber - are sterile and lifeless, the usual gunmetal of an Imperial starship, the red logo imprinted into fabrics.

 

The enormous mountain of a Mandalorian regards her through the slit in his golden helm. No one should be that huge, and despite herself, she squirms back into the room.

 

“Welcome, my lady,” a voice distorted and strange greets her. “I trust you are well?” It comes not from the bounty hunter, but from overhead; a speaker perhaps.

 

“Who are you? Why am I here?”

 

“You have no time for pleasantries, my lady? That is a shame indeed, for I was looking forward to our conversation. Indeed, I am sure that in just a few days you shall be craving my attention. Those robes are unbecoming in such a lady, so very drab and plain; I shall have others sent to you, and then you shall come and dine at my table.”

 

“And if I refuse?” Cameras, tiny and carefully placed. The lenses glint in her peripheral. She wonders if she can shatter them with a well-aimed throw of something heavy, but everything, frustratingly, is bolted to the floor.

 

“I am sure that it will not come to that. You have always possessed the most elegant manners, Sansa. I am sure that your mother would be shocked if you shirked your duties as a guest. She always set such a store in manners, Catelyn. Such a wonderful woman, your mother."

 

Oh no.

 

“Petyr?”

 

No. No. Really. No. Not Baelish. Anyone but Baelish. 

 

“Perhaps.” Her breathing tightens. “Perhaps not. The Mandalorian will return with more appropriate clothing, and you shall go with him. If you do not go with him, he shall bring you anyway.”

 

The outfit, when it is thrust into her arms by the Mandalorian, is silvery-grey, flimsy and low-cut enough to expose much of her pale breasts, sheer panels about her arms and waist, long skirts slit to the hips. The Mandalorian does not turn when she strips, blushing and self-conscious, but stares at her through that glistening visor. When they leave the chambers, and she tries to cover herself because being naked is less awful than being presented like a pretty toy, Sansa can see nothing through the slit in the helm.

 

Nothing.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live vicariously through others, and welcome your prompts, over on my [Tumblr.](asbestosmouth.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

“My Empress."

 

“My dear Lord Tywin.”

 

A bow, a suitably chaste kiss to his mistress’ cheek, just caressing the corner of her mouth. She glimmers, as lovely a Sith as ever there was in the universe. Tyrell roses curl about her sleeves, embroidered gold and green, and the smooth fabric of her rather less formal robe slithers silk-whispering over the intricately tiled floor. However much Dark Castamere loved his Joanna - and he did, until death and Tyrion’s birth stole her away, and sometimes the memory of his lovely wife echoes in the Force, in his head, and he still remembers the scent of her perfume and the way she braided her hair - he is politically and romantically entangled in the thorns of his Olenna. Of course their affair began as a means to an end, yet, as time drifted and their families grew to power together, more tender feelings blossomed.

 

“Whisperer has located him. He has requisitioned Captain Tarth, and has sent her to bring him home.”

 

“An excellent choice. The Captain is far too dull and worthy to deviate from Varys’ plan, far too filled with her own self-important honour.” She sips from the goblet of Arbour Gold, trails long fingers across Tywin’s cheek.

 

“Soon my son shall be returned to his rightful place as my heir, my Queen. His re-education in the ways of the Sith may take me from your side, for which I apologise. It may prove an arduous process; Jaime is a stubborn boy.”

 

“What will you do with that girl of yours?” Cersei is a problem. An issue. A liability. “Such a foolish child.”

 

“I would see her wed to a man who can control her. Neutralised.”

 

“I am sure I can find a suitable candidate, my dear Darth Castamere…” He catches a certain gleam in her blood red pupils, a vicious amusement that he finds thrilling. Joanna was sweet, a good woman, whose legacy lives in Myrcella and Tommen; they shall never be Sith. Attractive, pliable, thoroughly useful for alliances, but their talent will be diplomacy rather than power. Joffrey, for his madness, could be trained. Channeling the rage and anger the boy exudes into the Dark Side of the Force may create a most potent weapon. Mindless and utterly stupid, yes, and lacking reason, but what is a lightsabre without an edge?

 

“Your grandson would suffice, my Empress.”

 

“I presume you mean Loras?” They do not mention young Lord Tyrell, who is missing. He shall be returned to the fold, of course, but Jaime is far more important for now. “You really do wish to break her, humiliate her.” A peal of sparkling laughter. “You despise the girl, Tywin. You really do.”

 

“She needs to learn her place. I was wrong to take her as my apprentice; she grows bold beyond her ability, and I will not have my family name ruined by my daughter. When Jaime returns, when he is turned back to the Dark, I shall replace Cersei with my true heir. Her anger and pain will be exquisite.”

 

“Locked into a marriage of convenience with a man who does not desire her, even if she is handsome and fertile? Vile creature you are, my dearest Lord.” Her mouth brushes his, her hands resting lightly upon his chest. “Loras is far too delicate, too important, to taint him with such.”

 

“And he shall not produce children unless he is forced,” Tywin reminds her, finding her throat with his lips.

 

“That is why my Margaery is my heir. Clever, cunning, talented with the Force. Beautiful. She is the sort of lovely woman who can use her charm to run the Empire.”

 

“Like you, my Empress.”

 

“Flattery, Darth Castamere, means you shall be missing dinner.” She pulls back, takes his hand. “I think our battle of wits must be taken to the bedchamber. I have need of your expertise.”

 

“There are others of our blood who could wed.” Jaime. Margaery. An excellent match.

 

“For the fifth time, my dearest Tywin, I will not marry you.” They know that is not what he means.

 

They both know that.

 

* * *

 

“Davos?”

 

“Yes, sweetheart?” He looks up, distracted, reading spectacles balanced on his nose, from the book with which he wrestles; it is one of those highly niche tomes that only those with particular tastes ever buy, detailing the history and battle record of the Ferret-class reconnaissance starships. He has taken to placing Post-It notes in relevant sections, covered in his own scrawling writing, for future consideration. Sometimes he even makes tiny models of them, scale-perfect and painted just so, and they are suspended from the ceiling with filament-thin wire in what Stannis calls Davos’ man cave.

 

There is only one person in Seaworth’s life who he calls that particular pet name, and it is not Stannis. It is tempting to think of a sweet nothing to murmur in Baratheon’s ear, mostly to see what would happen, but Davos fights the temptation. Mostly. What he says when they’re in bed is strictly between him, Stannis, and the duvet.

 

“There is a person on the holo for you.”

 

Curious.

 

“Did the person say who they are?”

 

Shireen shakes her head. She has her hair in long braids, and it takes half an hour every morning for Davos to get them as perfect as they’ll ever be given his missing fingertips and never having a daughter before this. They have watched many holovids to get the technique correct, to copy the latest ‘cool’ styles from across the galaxy. He parents the girl in his warm loving way while Stannis is too wrapped up in ideas of demolishing the Empire and the rise of the Jedi to think of the little matters in life that need attending. Like eating. Giving his daughter a hug. Sometimes breathing. “He is old, though. Like you.”

 

“Cheeky thing that you are.” Always teased about being old, but when you are twelve, almost fifty does seem geriatric. He follows her, kisses her on the forehead, pads over to the holoterminal and waves a hello.

 

“Davos.” A familiar figure nods, respectfully.

 

“Shireen, why don’t you go and see if your father needs you, pet?”

 

She hugs him, tight, and he can’t resist cuddling her back for a long moment.

 

“Daughter, eh?” asks the hologram after Shireen departs, as shy and sweet as any girl her age. She has a boyfriend, which makes Stannis thoroughly irked, especially as it turns out that the boy is the more feral of the Stark children. He keeps making noise about locking her away in a tower so she cannot be sullied, but Davos points out, patiently, that their little dove needs to experience the world if she is to grow to be a functioning, sensible adult.

 

“She’s Stannis’.” And his. Resolutely Davos’ too.

 

“Scarring’s a little unfortunate, poor kid.”

 

“Greyscale.”

 

The holo man seems unmoved. His uniform, which appears slightly singed about the edges and very well worn, glimmers with the insignia of an Admiral of the Republic Fleet. The old one. Before everything went really badly wrong and the vast majority of the Jedi died.

 

“How’s Jon?”

 

A roll of the curiously silvered eyes. “Angry and hot-headed, but what’s new, eh? Daft bugger almost got cut in half by a small but pissed-off troupe of slavers, and he’s confined to the medi-bay.”

 

“...what was he doing near slavers?” This might take a while. Davos pops the kettle on, snags a chair, finds some of those carbosyrup laden biscuits that Stannis has taken a slight addiction to. His Jedi will complain about his stash being raided, but more can be baked. There are recipes pinned to the cupboards, after all. He and Shireen bake together.

 

“You tell me, Davos. One moment we’re happily trying to negotiate the release of my bloody great nephew, again, - the kid gets kidnapped more times than I can believe, seriously, next time I’m leaving the little bugger there - and suddenly Jon’s wading in with his sword, and it turns chaotic.” Shrugging his shoulders, the man pauses, sighs, shouts at someone out of view of the receiver. “And you get your arse back to bed, Connington, or I’ll do it for you.”

 

“No. I’m up, and I’m bored. Oh, hey Davos. You’re looking wonderful as ever.” Jon Connington appears, looking worse for wear as most of his face is covered in dressings, and kisses the Blackfish on the cheek, just above his impressively grizzled beard-line. Every so often he and Davos swap facial hair care tips. “Stop worrying, Brynden. I’m not dead. Yet.”

 

“You will be if you don’t go and rest.”

 

“Evening to you, Jon.” The two battered veterans squabble gently before him, and Davos takes the opportunity to make his caf. From past experience, over several decades - he was a professional associate of the Admiral, during his smuggling days - this might take a little while. Indeed, he eats three of the little crunchy biscuits and drinks half his cuppa before they remember, finally, they are being watched.

 

“Piss off, Jon, and rest.”

 

“Time for my kolto bath anyway. I’ll get a droid to do my back.” Connington pauses, devilry in his smirk. He is the sort of man who pokes a wound, preferably someone else’s, because he wants to create a reaction. Manic. Angry. Every so often he goes and picks a bar fight, just to keep his hand in. No wonder people try and kill him on a regular basis, but, to be honest, being the partner of a rebel tactical genius who laughs off the assassination attempts the Empire sends on a weekly basis can exacerbate these things. “I’ll close my eyes and think of Rhaegar.”

 

The Blackfish stares doggedly at Davos until Connington vacates the chamber, before rubbing his face. “You ever have to compete with a dead man, Seaworth? I know he only does it to wind me up because he’s bored out of his skull not being out there killing his way across the damned sector, but it’s been eighteen bloody years he’s held it over me.”

 

“Trouble in the Blackfish household? I’d send you a biscuit, but it would go soggy. Shireen bakes lovely stuff. You know you can always talk to me.”

 

“Unless Stannis is lurking,” Brynden mutters. “Still haven’t told him, have you?”

 

“I was going to, but then Jaime Lannister turned up. Did you know he’s gone rogue and is running a smuggling ship these days?”

 

“Handsome bastard. He almost had Jon’s arm off once, until I punched him in the face. Force users forget that some of us fight bloody dirty when it comes to it.”

 

“Stannis never remembers either.”

 

“He’s too honourable.” The Blackfish eyes Davos, thoughtfully. “Which is why you’ve not told him.”

 

“With Stannis I need to approach these things carefully,” he points out. “If I just come out with this without convincing him that it is his idea, he’ll go spare. You know what he’s like, Brynden. We’re going to Dorne, by the way, to try to convince Oberyn Martell that joining the rebellion is a good idea. I’ll take my personal comms with me, so we can talk. Perhaps I’ll get the Red Viper to have a word, see what we’re all about, eh?”

 

“He tried to screw Jon.” The Blackfish growls.

 

“Oberyn Martell sleeps with everyone,” Davos finishes his caf. “It’s never personal, it’s just what he does, Bryn. He tried to sleep with Stannis.”

 

“He’s not tried to screw me. Or you.”

 

They pause, thinking.

 

“What’s wrong with us? Do you think it has something to do with our beards?”

 

Brynden scratches his aforementioned facial hair. “Or more likely he doesn’t want to piss off a Jedi and a man who has a temper more fiery than a temple full of R’hllor worshippers? Self preservation despite wanting to make love to the bloody galaxy, I suppose.”

 

“Not that we would sleep with him, obviously,” Davos interjects.

 

“No. Definitely not. Even if he’s sexy.”

 

“Stupid attractive Dornishmen.” They both start laughing at exactly the same moment; after all, they have been friends for longer than they’ve been with their respective partners. It’s a Navy thing, is lifelong friendship, along with Corellian rum, buggery, hatred of heavily modified and pimped out YT-1300 light freighters who do the Roseroad Run in under twelve parsecs, and mutineering.

 

* * *

 

“It is a datapad,” Oberyn adds, helpfully.

 

“Thank you?” The Sith is confused, and the expression sits deliciously upon his pretty red-skinned face. The golden piercings glimmer and sometimes jingle as he bows his head, and it is easy for Oberyn to while away a good half an hour in the privacy of his own bedchamber imagining the studded metal all over Lord Tyrell’s lean elegant body. He is not overly experienced with bedding Sith, especially those who are of aristocratic origin, but the last one he enjoyed had nipple rings and also, well, who’d have thought a man could have that much metal in such a sensitive area? Surely the weight would put his centre of gravity off kilter?

 

Ah, the beauty of the galaxy, and the humanoids within, all for him to explore. Others use compasses and hiking accoutrement. Oberyn prefers cartography of the humanoid form, especially if he can use his tongue.

 

“It allows you access to our networks, Lord Tyrell. You may correspond with who you so wish.”

 

“I could write to my brother?” Those wide yellow eyes grow even larger, so very hopeful. “I could talk with Garlan?”

 

“Is he as handsome as you, little Sith?” Another attempt at flirting. By now he’s usually made love with his willing victim and is on to the next, but this is almost like trying to seduce Dayne without utilising a Love-Wallop pill. Just not happening. Frustrating and thrilling in equal measure.

 

“Oh, much more, Prince Oberyn! I’m terribly ordinary compared to them.” Innocent, thy name is Willas Tyrell. Oberyn wondered if it was affected, but decided, given the other conversations that they have had, the man is just adorably clueless about everything apart from xenozoology, perfect manners, and the more educational subjects studied by those at the Citadel. He has never met anyone as unused to other, albeit normal, people, so perfectly charming. So unspoiled.

 

The urge to slide astride the long thighs, rumple the neat dark hair, and lick the gold wrapping about the delicate facial tendrils is really quite maddening.

 

“Tell me of them?” Images of a filthy and debauched nature dance in his mind. Again. What would one call a group of Tyrell siblings? Obviously a gangbang.

 

Willas beams, and is beautiful. “I have a holopic, I’ll...hang on.” He scrabbles in his pockets, frowns, before limping to his bedchamber. It allows Oberyn time to admire his backside. Whoever Lord Tyrell’s tailor is, he needs to send them a fruit basket in appreciation.

 

“Here.” He settles next to Martell, knee to knee, clutching the tiny projector and the disc. Moments later, the hologram transmits, blue and silver, and Oberyn stares.

 

“You have a lovely family.” Willas is correct. He is indeed the least handsome of them all, but still unmistakably gorgeous. It is in the cheekbones, the slightly crooked smile. The gentleness. The way he moves, graceful and apologetic in turn. That incredible backside. As a man who has had access to many posteriors throughout his life, Tyrell’s is possibly the nicest he’s ever seen. Possibly the most clothed, but that can change. After all, if he can get Dayne naked - and he has - then a Sith is easy enough. Maybe he will not get his hands and other parts of his anatomy on it, but he can appreciate visually.

 

The Tyrell in the Imperial uniform, crisp and refined and with medals pinned to his chest, has impressive shoulders and the sort of honourable face that only a goodly soldier can cultivate. Curious, considering they are all pureblood Sith; they are not supposed to represent morality. Presumably this is the brother that Lord Tyrell wishes to write to. The other male sibling, the warrior, is glorious, and obviously knows it, and has a certain arrogance to him that is fascinating and distasteful. Again that body, the build of a fighter, exquisitely dressed in Sith armour, and-

 

“He has a magenta lightsabre,” the Sith adds, helpfully. “Margie’s is rose-pink. I need to update to a colour holo, really, but I’ve never got round to it.”

 

Ah. Margaery Tyrell. Dayne speaks of her in bitterness. She is the heir of the Empire, and is therefore most dangerous. She is also stunning, a curious cross of the prettiest brother’s handsomeness but possessing a similar crooked smile to Willas. Far more smirk-laden, however, far less sweet. Such an impressive form in those rather well-fitted robes. He finds himself staring shamelessly at her half-covered breasts.

 

“Sith do have an innate dress sense, yes?”

 

“I’ve always wondered if wearing nice clothing means a touch of the Dark Side. Master Dayne is a very handsome gentleman, but I do not think brown sackcloth is quite his colour.” Oberyn frowns for a moment, steals a glance, and realises, with a faint amusement, that this is apparently a Sith joke. Lord Tyrell seems to have some semblance of a sense of humour.

 

“What would you have him wear, my Sith?” White leather trousers, his lightsabre ignited and blazing, and nothing else, supplies Oberyn’s treacherously lustful mind.

 

“Oh, I don’t know.” He watches the holopic, soft-eyed. It is obvious he looks at the Moff and the woman, avoiding the handsome Force using brother. “I think white? He is the Sword of the Morning.”

 

“As he reminds us on an hourly basis. You do not look at your warrior brother, Lord Tyrell?”

 

“Oh. Loras.” He chuckles, uncomfortably. “We aren’t close. I think. Well. See, I’m a disappointment, and he isn’t, and he rather likes teasing me, telling me that I am a failure. It-It’s a Sith thing, really, to try and one-up one’s siblings, or family. It builds emotion. Perhaps he thinks I need to hate him, which I don’t, he’s just an idiot most of the time, so he can hate me, and the Force can flow more powerfully? Emotion is what drives a Sith. It’s all very different with Jedi. Jedi seem so,” and he flails, hands twisting. “Peaceful. So calm, and serene. Quite lovely, really.”

 

“Yet you have met Dayne.” Grumpy Arthur. Oberyn wouldn’t want him any other way. Unless that other way means being pounded into the mattress by the most dangerous fighter in the galaxy, of course, but if not, then Arthur must never change.

 

“I presume he is a-typical?”

 

Martell searches through the Jedi he knows, trying to find one to live up to the expectations of this sweet boy. Dayne. Dondarrion. Baratheons, past and present. This might be difficult. Starks, perhaps-?

 

“Renly is quite a-typical too, I suppose. He still seems rather Jedi even if he has fallen.”

 

The name makes Oberyn pause.

 

“Renly Baratheon?”

 

“Yes.” Tyrell switches off the holo projector with careful fingers.

 

“He is dead. He was killed by Loras Tyrell.” He attended the funeral of the Baratheon brothers.

 

“No. He’s with Loras. They’re...you know. Like that. Together together.” Understanding dawns in those fathomless yellow eyes, a horror at Oberyn’s conviction. “Oh. Oh. But. They said. But. He’s. What? I’m sorry? Dead? They say he’s dead? But he’s not! I saw him before I left. H-he told me that he liked my trousers, and if I could tell him where I had them from, so I did, and then he said he’d have some made because my tailor makes them fit very well, and he laughed and invited me to go and dine with him and Loras when I had time.”

 

It hits, heavy and terrible, oppressive. Game-changing. Renly Baratheon is not dead. The Jedi he was is, but the man has fallen to the Dark Side because of the power of Loras Tyrell’s cock. Stannis Baratheon told them all - all of them, every single one of them at the memorial service - that his brothers were killed. Robert in the Black Cells. Renly lost forever.

 

Lost forever. A clever choice of words, perhaps. Not dead. Fallen. Death in a way, he supposes.

 

Does Stannis even know? Is upright and moral Master Baratheon, the last remaining brother of the Light, of Storm’s End, aware that Renly lives?

 

Martell stands, abruptly. “I take my leave, my Lord. I must speak with Dayne.”

 

Surely the Force can tell Jedi if someone is dead or not? Because, if it can, then Stannis Baratheon and the rest of the Lightsiders are lying to protect one of their own.

 

Bitterness and ash. The Jedi are supposed to be the force for good, are they not, yet if they hide the fate of a man who is traitor?

 

How can a man tell who is Light and who is Dark when the two mesh together to create twilight?

 

* * *

 

“Why did you have to open your mouth, Clegane? We could have happily just gone on with our highly lucrative and thoroughly illegal activities, but no. You had to let your cock decide, didn’t you? Again.” Seriously? He tries to get away from all the Force user shit, and Sandor dumps them straight back into it because he wants to get off with some red-haired Stark tart with a penchant for asking Jedi for assistance.

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“I’m going to dump you at the Dreadfort and get Roose Bolton to geld you.

 

Clegane throws a scrunched up piece of the logbook at him. Jaime throws it back.

 

“Imagine the fucking credits. Fuck’s sake, Lannister, we can fucking retire with what Baratheon’s promised, you idiot whoreson.”

 

“Imagine the not having to get ourselves killed by infiltrating a bloody Imperial starship. Imagine being safe and not dead, Clegane. Seriously, did you mean to order a death wish with your erection this time? How the shitting hell are we supposed to happily land on an Imperial warship, wander around a bit, find wherever this girl is, pluck her to safety, and then get off aforementioned Imperial - don’t forget that, Clegane, Imperial, so we’re looking at a load of Stormtroopers and possibly an irate bloody Sith or two because that’s our luck - without being horribly killed, murdered, tortured, or turned over to my father?”

 

Clegane gives him one of those dark Zabrak looks, the sort where death and dishonour is something he really wants because it is how he rolls, before turning back to his Sudoku puzzle.

 

Something starts beeping, and it takes them utilising percussive maintenance to stop the ear-shrilling noise. Why punching things to mend them became a thing, he doesn’t know, but it works out all sorts of tension. Probably why Clegane likes hitting things, inanimate or not; therapy, perhaps.

 

“We need to stop off for fuel. Why didn’t you fill up before we left?”

 

“Fuck’s sake, tosser. I wasn’t the twat who was doing donuts around arsewanking Storm’s End!”

 

*****

 

“When did fuel get so expensive?” Jaime leans against Oath’s battered paintwork, examining his nails, as Clegane does everything like usual. The Zabrak is under the fuselage, fiddling with temperature gauges and the coolant system. Every so often, on reentry, things burn up just a little too much. That is what Clegane says, anyway; more likely he’s just aroused by fingering bits of _Oath_ because if the ship were a woman they’d be married off by now.

 

Qohor is a bit shit, like the rest of the Essosian Belt. Situated on one of the main trade routes through the galaxy, if specialises in slaves, eunuchs, and being raided by pissed-off Dothraki chieftains every two or three galactic years. The place is trees for miles, studded by random metalworking cities, and they seem to worship a black goat for some inane reason. The First of Her Name holds the endless space fields to the east, and the horse lords have a massive collective hard-on for tiny platinum blonde girls who own the three remaining Dragon-class warmachines. For someone so young, pretty, and apparently un-Targaryenly sane, she is a hell of a pilot. _Drogon_ , as black and red as _Oath_ , but ancient, primal, is the most terrifying thing in the universe. Apart from Tywin, obviously.

 

Goatshaggers, Qohorik. The lot of them.

 

Fuelling takes too long, and, bored, Lannister takes to trying to do a Sudoku. He fails, miserably, and this is made worse by the smirking smug bloody-mindedness of bloody Clegane.

 

He is about to see if he can use the Force to turn the pencil into a weapon of mass destruction to rain down justice upon Clegane’s spiky head, because while Jaime doesn’t do the whole Sith and lightsabre thing any more it is useful in some ways, when someone coughs, carefully.

 

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you are going anywhere near Tyrosh? I can pay for fuel, if it is needed?” asks the person. Tall, blond hair, very pretty eyes in a face only a Hutt mother could love. Dressed in non-descript leathers which fail to hide a truly incredible body. Low, gender-defying voice, with Imperial space written through it like a piece of candied rock. Really sexy blaster pistols, though.

 

Jaime, who thinks himself quite magnificent about the torso because, frankly, he usually has the best body within fifty clicks, develops an instant case of abs-envy.

 

“Fuck off,” Clegane rumbles from floor level as he smashes something to bits with his second-favourite hammer, and the person carefully steps around seven feet of mechanically minded grumpy Zabrak.

 

“Sorry about him. He was dragged up in a swamp, and has no manners. We’re not going near Tyrosh at all.”

 

“Or anywhere. Just anywhere that is not here? I can give you all of the credits that I have, if that would help?” Really nice eyes. Jaime wonders if he’d go gay for those eyes. And that body. That’s a hell of a body, to be frank. Not that he has done anything with anyone apart from Cersei, but that’s all behind him now, given that he is a fugitive from Empire justice, a rogue Sith, and his twin hates the fact that he is no longer physically complete. Whose fault was that? Bloody Cersei’s.

 

Although he did get a top of the range Imperial-patented cyborg hand out of what happened with Tywin.

 

He really likes that hand. Sometimes he wonders what else he could lop off to get more insanely useful cybernetics.

 

Jaime considers the person, decides he’d not go gay due to the face, opens his mouth to refuse, and-

 

“How many fucking credits?” Clegane peers up, orange-eyed and mercenary. He has a piece of duct tape stuck to his foremost horn and a spanner behind his ear. His favourite hammer is cradled, lovingly, in his lap. He never uses that hammer. He just cuddles it. Sometimes in bed.

 

“Oh, so they mention all of the credits and you’re fine with that? Didn’t it cross your mind that someone that desperate to get off Qohor, though I do understand because this is a shithole. Are all of the Essosi belt planets like this, by the way? Braavos, full of the Brotherhood Hutts. Lys is Chiss-central. Pentoshi food isn’t bad. Everyone in Volantis shags their sister - don’t look at me like that Clegane. I know what you’re thinking. Anyway, back to the case in point. Anyone who offers all of their cash to get off a planet, no matter how shit the planet is, is probably not a nice upstanding citizen with a sparkling clean record. We take, uh, them,” and he gestures at the person, “and who do we get wanting to kill us?”

 

“I am an honourable person.” The blond seems rather put out at being accused of nefarious deeds, and crosses their arms across their broad chest. Given the bulk of their clothing, Jaime cannot discern if any breasts are present. “I resent you casting such aspersions upon my character.”

 

“Welcome aboard. Get your fucking arse on, and we’re off."

 

“Hang on!” What the hell is Clegane on now?

 

“Any cunt who tells you off, Blondie, is welcome on my ship. And remember, _Oath_ is fucking mine, you fucking fucker.” He grins savagely at the tall person, offers an oil-spattered hand. It is shaken with some strength as for a moment there is a battle over who has the better handshake, and muscles start flexing all over the place.

 

“Clegane. Blond fuckweasel is Jaime."

 

“My name is Brienne. Thank you for having me.”

 

“Brian?” Jaime sulks.

 

“No.” A sigh. This obviously happens more than often, but understandably so. “Brienne is the feminine form of the name Brian, which means ‘noble’ in the original language.”

 

“Shit, woman, you’re fuckin’ built,” Clegane seems impressed. They’ll probably end up going to the gym together, spotting and whipping each other with rolled up towels.

 

“Shit, woman, you’re bloody ugly,” Jaime grumbles as he stalks into the welcoming cool interior of the ship.

 

* * *

 

“Focus. Feel the Force flow through you. Feel it in every muscle and sinew, every beat of your heart. Behind your eyes. In your head. Feel it caress. You are power. You are precision. You are at one with your nature, with the Force. Concentrate, and you shall triumph over your adversity.”

 

For some reason Beric decided that tying Ramsay up like a trussed turkey and having him will away his bonds is a really good way of learning to channel the Force. They are hurtling through space as passengers on a shit interstellar transport, on their way to Dorne of all places. Apparently they are to meet with someone called Arthur, which is a useless name for a Jedi. Like Norman. Or Derek. Or Ben.

 

Dorne. Where the dissipated and the dissolute go to shag themselves to death.

 

“You’re enjoying this. You’re getting off on it, you dirty Jedi pervert.”

 

“I am above baser things. Oh look.” Beric is checking his electronic mail. “That’s rather pleasant; I have a credit off coupon at _Hot Pie’s Taste Emporium_. When we go to King’s Landing next, I’ll buy you a Pyollian cake. Have you ever had one? The more pleasing contain blumfruit, but I am partial to shuura. Remind me to make dinner reservations for us - I know an excellent restaurant that does seriously good Northern style cooking. Maybe that’ll perk you up a little?”

 

“I’m going to get out of this shit, and then I’m going to insert your frigging lightsabre so far up your arse that when I turn it on, your eyes’ll be glowing purple!”

 

Beric pops another grape into his mouth, licks his fingers, exudes an air of supreme superiority that makes Bolton want to brain him with something heavy, like a bantha, or the Dreadfort. Whilst Dondarrion is comfortably settled on the couch, head pillowed on a fluffy cushion, complete with a snuggly blanket and a cocktail, Ramsay squirms angrily on the cold metal floor. His arse is numb. His wrists ache, and he’s sure that he’s bled from the rope chafing against his skin.

 

“Do you tie up all your padawans?”

 

“Only the adorably irate ones. Grape?”

 

“No. Bitch.” Yes. Those grapes look good.

 

Beric smiles, as gentle and calm as any Jedi Master should be, even if he is far more screwed up than he pretends, before he breaks one of the green fruits from the stalk. “Are you sure, Ramsay? Because I can give you a grape if you so wish.”

 

The fucker is reading his mind. He can feel Beric teasing away at the squishy grey matter.

 

“...go on then.” he’s bored, and fed-up, and a bit chilly. Maybe a grape will help in his plans to murder Beric with various objects.

 

“I can hear you thinking. No, you can’t strangle me with your bare hands because my neck is far too brawny for your tiny Ewok hands. Come here.”

 

“No. You come here.” Like he’s going to crawl on his knees to the Jedi for a grape. That’s bollocks.

 

Beric eats the grape with relish, vaguely erotic with a side order of worrying.

 

“Are you really wanting me to piss off to the fucking Dark Side? Because this is really making me want to piss off to the Empire, become a Darth, and break you, Jedi.” He twists once more, swearing, before realising belatedly that the ropes have disappeared and Ramsay falls flat on his face. It hurts. His nose complains. He imagines crucifying Beric, flaying him alive, and then letting his father’s pack of akk dogs tear out his still begging throat.

 

“Well done, Ramsay.” A rustle of robes, and he hates those stupid fucking robes, and then Beric is by his side, feeding him a grape. It is sweet and tart, and possibly worth all the shit he is currently going through. Roose never believed in tasty snack food. All meat, all of the time, with a side order of meat for the inhabitants of the Dreadfort. “I told you that you could do it. Perhaps we need to address your inner anger, and how you managed to get out of your shackles by channeling your hate, but I am sure, with the correct guidance, you shall become an excellent Jedi.”

 

Another grape is given to him, a sip of wine trickled between his lips. Ramsay eyes Dondarrion warily, before carefully sitting up, rubbing his aching wrists.

 

“Through victory, our chains are broken.” Beric examines the wounds, smearing bacta over the rawness. He tends to be quite attentive after training. Even when he punishes, he always explains exactly why he needed to do it, the purpose of what he did, and what behaviour he expects in the future. Being gently lectured as someone Force chokes him is a new one.

 

“Isn’t that a bit frigging Sith of you?” A lot of what Beric does is ‘a bit Sith’ of him. He is contradicting everything Ramsay learned about Jedi, apart from those fucking awful robes.

 

The corner of the man’s mouth quirks, framed by cybernetics. “The Dark Side is a tool to be utilised, Ramsay. Controlled. It can be touched, tasted even. I am Jedi. I seek the darkness to push myself towards the Light. I desire peace, and the renewal of the Order. How we achieve that, well - sometimes the end justifies the means. If I touch the Darkness, then others remain in the Light; there are always those who are sent to do the dirty work of others. I was sent by Master Eddard to kill those who would destroy the Jedi, who would slaughter the innocent. I battled the Mountain in the darkest depths of the Riverlands and died upon his vibro-lance. They hanged me in the Vale. You stabbed me through the skull with my own lightsabre. A gaffii stick to the head when I roamed Crownland space. Other deaths still echo.”

 

He touches the scars, mostly hidden by metal. “Six times I have died, and each time I return. My brothers in arms say each death changes me, drives me further towards the shadow, and I do admit that I forget more and more of myself each time, but I still fight my compulsion, I still find my peace, my inner harmony. I wage war every moment, and I will always win. I will never fa-”

 

“Apart from when something’s on fire,” Ramsay interrupts, rather rudely.

 

“Fire is life is death, my padawan.”

 

“You just like setting fire to shit.”

 

“There is that, yes.” Another of those enigmatic, unreadable smiles. “Setting fire to the world and watching it burn can cleanse the soul. Fire is light and it drives away the Dark.”

 

* * *

 

Another dinner aboard the cruiser is over, and the Mandalorian escorts Sansa back to her room. He does not speak, or seem to breathe, and she still cannot discern anything through the slits in the golden helm, but she talks as if he understands, about the food, or the company, or the strange robed man who watches her eat and eats nothing himself. Only when she is safely locked away in her prison chambers does the Sith talk with her, modulated voice distorting through his mask. His words are teasing, and arch, and sometimes brutally blunt. Sometimes he whispers rants of blood and insanity, of dark things and the deaths of the Jedi. Sometimes he just laughs as she asks him, voice trembling, to _please stop, my Lord, you are scaring me_.

 

Black and red, from the sinister sculpted mask to the glimmering metal-edged boots. Whoever the Sith is, and she presumes he is because of his clothing, his demeanour, his arrogance, she is unsure if he is Petyr Baelish.

 

Of a height, yes, and a build, but there is something less creepy in a masked Sith Lord than in Baelish’ genial smiles and glistening eyes. No touching of her arm, or lingering caress at the small of her back. No trying to get close to her because he is nothing but a lech with a taste for Tully redheads and because Sansa is a prettier version of her Mother.

 

Unless Petyr is pretending to be a Sith, to throw her off balance, and-

 

Ugh!

 

Hopefully the mouse droid will have reached Stannis Baratheon.

 

The pact between their two families, of mutual protection and love, still holds even if Robert and Father are dead. Presents are swapped at festival days, and name day gifts are always received from Storm’s End, and Sansa and Shireen often write. The strange little family visits Winterfell when convenient, and Davos sweeps her into a hug that reminds her of Ned. Stannis, who finished Robb’s training after Robert was murdered, and assists Jon when required, has promised, however unwillingly given her brother’s blossoming pre-teen relationship with Shireen, to try and tame Rickon.

 

Davos and Stannis act, in some sense, as parents for the Stark orphans. Sansa appreciates that more than she can say.

 

Bran, of course, needs no training. He sees the Force as a green thing, a living hologram in his mind; he says he has a third eye with a strange little smile, and spends most of his time with Jojen Reed trying to decipher his visions. And kissing. Lots of kissing. Luckily they both had their trousers on when Sansa accidentally walked in on them snogging, but she could tell clothing was only optional at that point. She doesn’t mind, even if Jojen is seriously weird, because so is Bran. He deserves someone who gets him, who sees what he sees and doesn’t think him mad. She can’t quite understand her brother, but, she always reminds herself, none of her family understand Sansa in return.

 

The only non-Force user out of them all. Like Mother.

 

Cat never wielded a lightsabre, but her talents ran to support, and keeping the gaggle of Jedi she worried about, mothered, fretted over, safe and grounded.

 

Arya ran after their parents’ death, with her Nym, and is reportedly somewhere in Braavos. Robb and Jon, determined, set out to bring the murderers to justice - Stannis says they are alive, at least, though he finds them difficult to locate. The Force seems to shield them, from loving eyes as well as those who wish them ill. Bran remains at Winterfell with his dreams and Jojen, and Rickon snarls and bites those who he does not know. He is almost of an age to travel to Storm’s End and begin his apprenticeship.

 

Sansa? Sansa fights alone.

 

Sansa the diplomat. Sansa, Lady of the North. Sansa, who charms her way across the galaxy, forging treaties with other houses. Sansa, who uses the arsenal and armour of the well-bred and mannered lady to persuade those who would fight the Empire into supporting the rebellion.

 

Sansa. Who has nothing but the force of personality, rather than the true Force, to protect her from those who would cause her harm.

 

She removes the awful gown, glares at the crumpled fabric, and curls wearily into the narrow bed.

 

If someone could come and rescue her, one of those fine Knights of her dreams and childhood, when she was convinced she’d marry a Jedi - possibly Arthur, who is very handsome, and the story of Dawn is totally the most romantic thing ever, because no one else has made a lightsabre crystal from a fallen star - she’d really appreciate it right about now.

 

* * *

 

“She turned me down.” Tyrion is drunk, the darling man.

 

“Who did, dear?” Varys tops up his glass, settles back, sips his own drink.  

 

“Twi’lek with the enormous lekku.”

 

“She is a tart, darling. You’re far too good for her.”

 

“You say that about all the women I want to have sex with, Whisperer.”

 

“Your taste is appalling; all beautiful faces and devious minds. You need someone who adores you for your ravishing self, someone who thinks your mismatched eyes and rakish scar are perfection.”

 

“Like you, you mean?” A grin, wide and toothy. The aforementioned ravishing mismatched eyes squint, meeting Varys’ red glowing ones.

 

“You are far too short for me, dearest,” lies Varys through his back teeth. His adoration of his friend sometimes means sexual frustration and many cold showers. Damn Tyrion, with his clever wit, charm, and air of general debauchery. Damn him for his penchant for buxom alien females with fascinating arrays of head tentacles rather than pleasingly plump Chiss spymasters. Damn him for that tiny smirk that sends him glittering with ill-concealed amusement. Of course they shall never happen, given Lannister’s delight in nubile female flesh, but one can dream; sometimes on a nightly, slightly embarrassingly messy, basis.

 

“Come with me when we find Jaime. Come and live a life of derring-do and swashbuckle.”

 

He chuckles, warmly, before it dawns, cool and clear and with a slight southwesterly breeze, that Tyrion is serious. He is serious, like death, and Darth Castamere, and the impact of the rebellion upon trading partnerships throughout his beloved Empire.

 

“Tyrion-”

 

“Do it for the Empire, Varys.”

 

“And abandon all I have worked for, darling? My fingers are to the bone, Tyrion, the bone, protecting our interests. Never has the Empire run so smoothly.”

 

“And yet,” the green eye gleams, the black one urges, and Varys thinks that alcohol has a lot to answer for at the moment, “this is false stability. When the rebellion explodes, when Olenna is dead and we’ve got Loras and Margaery fighting like a couple of strumpets over the scraps of what remains, because that will happen, we need to be on the side that’ll be more beneficial to everyone involved. Not just the one that puts the wants of Lords of the Sith over every other person in the galaxy. Imagine reforging the galaxy in your own inimitable way, Varys? Imagine being the true power behind the throne?”

 

Tyrion. Appealing to the one thing Varys gets off on more than attractively muscular and callous-fingered Rattataki slave boys in tight leather shorts. And Tyrion, obviously. Not power. Not domination. Just the galaxy being stable, and profitable, and, above all, safe. He is nothing but a servant of the Empire, not the people. Or, at least, the people who are the Empire, not those who run it. Sometimes he yearns for the days of the Targaryens, with their sparkle and pizzazz, their willingness to allow civil servants to get on with the actual rule, remaining as beautiful silver-haired sister-loving figureheads.

 

The Good Old Days. When Olenna Tyrell and her geriatric Sith boyfriend did not interfere every five minutes and give him migraines.

 

Tyrion is a swine. Varys sees through the faux majestic inspiring words easily.

 

“Ah,” and he smiles, gently. “This is to upset Tywin, isn’t it?”

 

“Of course it is. You don’t actually think I’m bothered about some half-dead smelly peasant living in the Riverlands, do you? But didn’t that speech sound marvellous? I should be a writer. Come with me, Varys, and really piss off my father.”

 

Tempting. There is little love lost between Darth Castamere and Whisperer. They understand that the other is highly necessary to the Empire in general, but there have been the odd assassination attempt between the two. Mostly, on Varys’ part, because the Lannister clan, apart from divine Jaime, are utterly awful to the even more divine Tyrion.

 

“Ask me when we’re not completely full of Sullustan gin, and I’ll consider.”

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

 

The Force.

 

Flowing and touching every life form in the galaxy, the universe, beyond; the reaches of time and space cannot contain the energy that is at one with all.

 

He sees it. He always has. Golden tendrils, twisting and caressing. Currents and eddies, and whirlpools. Like water. The water of life, of power.

 

The Miralukan people witness everything through the Force, for they are physically incapable of sight.

 

He exists at the edges of reality, for the visions are endless. A thousand outcomes. Death. Life. Rebirth. The coming of nuclear winter. The warmth of a spring devoid of darkness. Sith Emperors. Jedi Empresses. Dragons, and lords of the Great Starry Seas of the East.

 

He glows golden with his meditation, this Centre of Being, as he sightlessly sees that which is not real, but, like all of the Force visions of his people, could be. A thousand million futures that flick through his head, like a thumb across the pages of an ancient tome. He is not a Mystic. He does not try to translate. They are just there.

 

The Jedi. The Sith. All, at once, in his head. He senses their emotions, as if muffled in thick viscosity. There, yes, but struggling and squirming.

 

Red hair and lemon and only touched with the blood of the Jedi. A madman who crackles with insanity and the hunger for Godhood. Wolves that howl in grief and hunger for vengeance, at once united and apart. Violence and a darkness so complete that black holes devour less. Roses, trailing across bowers, in scarlet and tea-pink and magenta. One is missing. One is potential untapped. Gold and red dominating but fractured, at war. One who is light but should be dark, one who is dark but should be light. The star who is incorruptible, who is purity and the Dawn. Metal and flesh as one where darkness and light align in grey, refusing to die. Honour and blazing anger which could turn to the dark if not for the stubborn adherence to doing good. Others, just whispers of possibility.

 

Himself. A teal and red and gold core, so very far from his kin; the visions blind many, both Jedi and Sith, to his existence. Some know, some taste his presence in the Force, for molecules travel the rivers to the minds of the sensitive.

 

He blinks internally, for his race do not possess eyes and wear masks across the vestigial eye sockets they possess, and for a moment he is awarded respite from the visions.

 

Centuries he has lived, feeding upon the Force. He does not eat. He does not drink. The Force sustains him.

 

The seer who is forever blind. The ancient. The undying.

 

In his own language he is Sel-Mi. They translate his name to Basic, give him the title of Master.

 

The whispers and images crowd once more, and he feels himself falling into the twilight between reality and the future/past/present curling within his head.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t kill anyone. Don’t insult anyone. Do not, for the love of everything, annoy Master Dayne, because he will decapitate you. He is fond of decapitating. There will be consequences if you don’t listen, Ramsay.”

 

“Consequences apart from decapitation?” Dondarrion gives him a look, continues packing his things. Not that he has much, and most consist of those fucking awful robes, but still.

 

“Are you seriously going to wear leather on a desert planet?”

 

“I’m not wearing your shit robes, Jedi.”

 

“You look like a Sith.”

 

“Wish I was a fucking Sith,” Ramsay mutters, flipping his middle fingers at the rear of the bastard who refuses to die. There have now been nine murder attempts, and every time he tries Dondarrion just laughs at him, then does something painful. He ended up being zapped with lightning the previous evening when he tried to garotte Beric with his bootlaces. Electrocuted, stuck to the wall with the Force - which seems to be a favourite, and of course the supposed Light side is into bondage, twisted bastards that they are - with his wrists intricately lashed together with the weapon of his crime.

 

Beric, and Ramsay refuses to call the man Master because that gives him an advantage, is too good at the Myrish tight binding technique. Having seen a lot of it on his porn holos, usually involving nubile young Twi’lek girls being suspended with cleverly knotted ropes, it is disconcerting to find out that a Jedi knows how to make his tying people up look really bloody perverted.

 

Someone hammers on the door of their room. He’s sure that the crew think they are really really gay. Not that any of them say it. They’re more afraid of Ramsay than the Jedi, which is just sensible of them. Beric might bore them to death, though. Always that.

 

“Enter.” Beric puts on that Jedi smile, the warm and caring one that he reserves for other people and when he’s punishing Ramsay. When they are alone, he is sharper, more what is possibly himself.

 

“Ser...there’s a problem.” The crewmember, a Sullustan navigator, sways back and forth as she transfers her weight. At least Ramsay thinks it is female. No one can really tell with that face.

 

“How can I help?” No one else would ever believe that this Jedi could tie his Padawan up like some twisted bondage pervert when Beric smiles so calmly.

 

“Pirates on the starboard bow. They’ve docked, and-”

 

“Of course we shall deal with them, sister.” Beric pulls his brown hood over his hair, smoothes his robes, cracks his neck in anticipation. “You go and speak with the captain, tell him that me and my Padawan have the situation in hand.”

 

The navigator, terrified even though Beric is being very soothing and Jedi-y, tastes exquisite. All that fear pouring from her, all that emotion. He steps forward before a hand lies across the small of his back. A warning of fingertips. A little bit would be fine, just an inhalation that sends his head buzzing with the anticipation of blood and death? A tiny bit, like a hit of snorted spice during his tempestuous youth, when he travelled to Brotherhood space cantinas out of his skull on drugs to pick fights with wankers.

 

“I’ll tell him, Master Jedi.” With one last frightened whimper, for navigators never usually fight, she gallops away.

 

“Stop feeding on her emotions,” Beric murmurs in his ear, breath hot.

 

It’s easy for Dondarrion to speak. He is a Jedi. All light side, preaching, flowers, all that shit. Happy clappy dancing cheerfulness where emotion is supposed to be discouraged. Ramsay has never been taught to regulate himself; he is an angry, violent soul. He fights at his best when his head pounds, when he feels the burning hate that brings the Force within him to fruition.

 

“We need to discuss about channeling your anger towards something more productive. Perhaps find something more suited to moving away from the darkness and towards perhaps a balanced perspective? Emotion, yes, but more healthy alternatives than trying to come up with more schemes to kill me. What makes you happy, Ramsay?”

 

“Blood of my enemies on the floor. Sex. Death. Beating the shit out of people with my bare fists. Thinking about murdering you. Porn. Leather. Dogs.”

 

The Jedi’s soft smile widens, becomes a grin. It is singularly unpleasant.

 

“Lust might be an option, then. We can always work with lust. Or I shall buy you a puppy. Would you like a puppy, Ramsay? You’d have to feed it and clean up, but that can be arranged.”

 

He steps through the doorway, turns, and throws the spare lightsabre at Ramsay. He is so stunned at what Dondarrion said, that it smacks him in the face. Not the dog bit. The other part. The lust part.

 

What the fuck is Beric Dondarrion to be throwing stuff like that around so casually?

 

“Hurry up, Padawan. You don’t want to miss the fun, do you?” Grinning, and for a moment the Jedi looks boyish.

 

**********

 

Beric fights like a God. A surprisingly destructive yet zen God.

 

Ramsay is good, if brutally overconfident, and thoroughly careless. He dodges blaster fire, eviscerates one of the Feeorin with relish. He takes a facial tentacle as a prize, smacks another pirate across the cheek tauntingly with the drippy piece of flesh, then stuffs it in his belt and surges on. Lightsabre in one hand, and pistol in the other, he confuses the insurgents who firstly didn’t expect a Jedi to be aboard the freighter, and secondly have no idea what to do with someone who can fight at range and close at hand.

 

Especially when Ramsay realises, with a sick glee, that he too can call lightning down upon the attackers. Apparently that’s a thing now, since he got zapped the previous evening. All he needs to do is imagine it pouring from his fingertips and then there it is, sparks of yellowed purple and ozone.

 

Someone explodes. It proves quite messy.

 

Ramsay roars that his blades are sharp, motherfuckers, and plunges back into the fray.

 

Dondarrion laughs, his eyes blazing fire, and he removes someone’s leg with a low sweep of his double sabres. He finishes off with an easy backhand of plasma, and another invader lies dead.

 

Beric fights not like a Jedi, not like a Sith, but something caught between the two worlds. Honourable, which is idiocy, but he is not averse to being dirty. He uses his entire body, weight and muscle, and throws punches with the best of them. This isn’t the forms he has Ramsay practice, but something more. Something like a cantina brawl, but with the Force in every move.

 

Ramsay wants to fight like that, more like his true nature than stances, and forms, and waving a stick around as Beric counts.

 

Dondarrion also seems to nurture an ability to set things on fire with a wave of his robotic hand. How he does that, Ramsay doesn’t know, but he wants to do that, even more than throat punching. He’ll sacrifice a limb if necessary, because that is seriously cool. The flame makes the Jedi even more deadly. For a large man he has a certain brutal grace; muscles flexing, his robe torn in a dozen places, hair flying as his hood is burned to a cinder.

 

By the end of it all, nine men lie dead and the two of them are spattered with a variety of different coloured bloods.

 

“Is it always this good?” Ramsay asks. He wants to go and fuck something, or desecrate a corpse, or stab things with the sabre still burning purple in his gore-smeared fingers. He bounces, leering, teeth white and sharp.

 

“Sometimes it can be better. When the fire burns, and everything turns to ash, and I cleanse the galaxy in the name of the flames.”

 

“What are you? Not a Jedi, fuck no.” Shaking with it, drunk on power and death, Ramsay can’t stay still. He kicks a corpse, rifles in the pockets, steals the credits he finds. In this high-state, in his bloodlust that makes his heart pound and brain scream for more, all of it, destruction and death and the Empress dead and him astride the Iron Throne of the Citadel, in red and black and his lightsabre painted bloody, he tends to do stupid, senseless acts of violence. Not that Ramsay cares. He is not a nice person, after all. No Jedi.

 

Beric smiles, and there is danger in the expression, under the almost frightening calm. “I am the Grey, padawan. I obey no one. I have my own Code.

 

Ramsay waves a hand, wanting more, pauses, then licks some of that rich blue blood spattering his wrist. It tastes fucking awful. “And?

 

“It is why I took you; why damn you to being Sith when you would thrive under my tuition? Why send you to train with another Master who would end up condemning you for your darkness when you could be both Dark and Light? The harnessing of both sides, to create something more than Jedi or Sith. Neither of us are doomed to being what is expected, are we, Ramsay? I eschew the Jedi Council. I forge my own path, carving myself into something that does the terrible things that the Light cannot, but containing self-belief and never falling to the true evil of the Dark. Death brings perspective, and no one in the galaxy has died like I have. I have seen beyond this lifetime, and lived more than any other, and I have become a man spanning the crevasse between Jedi and Sith.”

 

“Can I bite a corpse?” It spills from his mouth. Beric goes on sometimes, in that low baritone, and Ramsay just wants to kick the shit out of everything rather than consider philosophy.

 

“Of course you can. You’ve been very good.” Indulgently.

 

“...you’re fucked in the head, Dondarrion.”

 

“Says the corpse biter.” Long metal fingers slide across Ramsay’s shoulder, stroke his hair back into some semblance of order. “There. Much tidier, though you need a bath. Enjoy your biting, and I’ll go and inform the captain that we’ll need some maintenance droids with mops.”

 

Plucking the sabre from Bolton’s fingers, Beric wanders off, still dripping blood, whistling a lullaby.

 

Right. This is turning out to be the weirdest few weeks of his life, and that includes when Roose was attacked by giant space leeches. Then trained them. Then used them on the Brotherhood. Because that was normal compared to this.

 

He considers the bodies, and then dives in, teeth snapping, avoiding the ones that drip blue.

 

* * *

 

“Master Dondarrion has a padawan,” the Jedi intones, rather critical. “I sense it in the Force.”

 

Oberyn - startled from a lovely dream about Sith boys with wide yellow eyes and crippling self-doubt who desperately need Martell cock to give them direction in life - stifles a yawn, stretches, allowing Arthur to witness the marvel that is his own bare chest. Why Dayne thought it necessary to wake him up, just to tell him about one of his little friends having another little friend, he doesn’t know, but if it means the Jedi might fall into bed with him, then that is perfectly reasonable.

 

“Ah, but you have a padawan, my Jedi. You seem unhappy at Master Beric having one also?”

 

Dayne settles at the edge of the bed, with far too much space between them, damn it all. 

 

“It’s dangerous, my prince, for that man to have a pupil. Especially as I sense nothing but darkness in the one he has chosen. Something has awakened, something terrible, and I do not wish to offend my fellow,” and he pauses, contemplating, obviously not wishing to link the purity of the Jedi to one such as Dondarrion, “Force user-”

 

“Tactfully put, my knight.” Beric is a naughty Jedi. Oberyn likes that.

 

Arthur inclines his head, and almost smiles. At least, something around his mouth twitches into less of a stern nobility, and it suits him. But then, anything suits the Knight of Dorne. He is as no other. He can even pull off those Jedi robes that make Oberyn’s internal fashion diva scream with horror. “Master Beric is unlike the Jedi. His training will not adhere to the strict codes that surround our Order. I ask before time if you would be politically and morally repulsed if I decapitated those who would threaten you and your people, my prince, even in the guise of a padawan?”

 

“I am never opposed to protecting what is mine.”

 

“Then we are as one flesh and mind, my prince.”

 

“Sounds most erotic, Master knight.” If only.

 

No. Kriff it all. It doesn’t stick. Flirting with Dayne, trying to seduce the man, is akin to attempting to make love to a bantha. Hugely disappointing, and you wonder why on earth you wanted to try in the first place, apart from sheer intrigue.

 

“You need to deal with the Sith Lord.” Dayne shifts on the bed, brings his legs up so he sits more comfortable. Considering they have never slept together in the physical sense, the knight spends an inordinate amount of time lurking upon Oberyn’s bed, taunting him with his blond perfection. Sometimes he turns up in just his trousers and boots, and lolls. Lolls. Unfairly. Many cold baths are taken after lolling is committed. “Send him back.”

 

“I cannot send him back, my knight. He will be killed.” Such a loss to the galaxy if someone as pretty as Lord Tyrell were dead. “He also is privy to information. The young Baratheon lives.”

 

Dayne arches a perfect eyebrow. “Little Renly?” 

 

“Quite strapping Renly last time I saw him. He has deserted you all, for he makes love with the Sith, Loras Tyrell. He holds dinner parties. It sounds very civilised.”

 

“I considered as such. I shall, of course, kill him where he stands if we meet again. He has broken the Code, and the honour of the Jedi.”

 

“Does the old Baratheon know?”

 

“Possibly.” Idly Dayne ignites Dawn, the glimmering frost-pale blade whirling as he idly runs through the feints of his Makashi discipline. His avoidance of the expensive tapestries and brocades that cover the four poster bed is testament to the man’s innate skill. No one moves with such elegant precision as the Sword of the Morning, though the more sneaky of his enemies tend to bring a blaster to their sabre fights.

 

Someone shot Arthur once. It was hilarious.

 

“When Stannis arrives, I shall tell him what I think of those that have funerals for the living.”

 

“If he knows, my prince. Renly may be blocking himself from his brother mentally.”

 

“We shall ask Davos. He shall be kind enough to give us answers, yes?” The bearded smuggler is a good man.

 

“Unless he still is irked about you trying to sleep with Baratheon.”

 

“Kriffing hells. They still are upset about that?”

 

Arthur, who seems to never understand the way of humanoids, even if he is one, seems unmoved. “They are mated for life, even if it is against the Code.”

 

“You should mate. Make love with my daughter. Give me Force-sensitive grandchildren.” Elia and her Master would have very pretty children. Oberyn, who adores little ones, can quite see his lightlance-wielding daughter and this handsome specimen of masculinity having the most beautiful babies. If he himself cannot take the Knight of Dorne to his bed, surely his brave, dark-eyed daughter who is both wilful and passionate can seduce Arthur? Her training tames her, a little, and her skill with the lance is truly impressive. Not a usual weapon for a woman, but Elia is not as others.

 

All of his daughters are set apart. His pride knows no bounds, and Oberyn is an indulgent, hands-on father.

 

“It is against the Code and my morals, my prince. I hold a position of power over Elia, and I would never use that to seduce her.”

 

“Ah, but I could order her to seduce you?” he purrs, amused as a pinkness threatens Dayne’s lightly tanned cheeks. “She is a pretty girl.”

 

“You tease me, my lord.”

 

“Always, my knight.” Sadly not with fingers, mouth, or other willing body parts.

 

* * *

 

“That was close.” 

 

Clegane shrugs, cigarra in his mouth, looking for all intents and purposes like some holodrama antihero. He should be wearing too many pistols, and a shirt open to his belt, and squint in the manner of a hard-nosed man with leathery skin staring into the suns. Possibly one of those hats. The ones with the ring of firaxan shark teeth around the crown, and that equus riders of old put water in, or whatever they did.

 

“Twat shouldn’t have fucking flown there, idiotic gaping space cunt.” Clegane is liable to space rage. More than once he’s rammed the shuttle of a little old lady who had the temerity to fly at the speed limit. It is the reason  _ Oath _ needs as many repairs as she does, and the extra plating across the bits that smash into other vessels. Endless new paint jobs, to the point where they just can’t be arsed any more. Hammering out to try and pretend it isn’t them that reversed into one of the Brotherhood ships that is parked behind them. That sort of thing.

 

“‘Woman’ present.” Jaime snorts, does the obnoxious air quotation thing. He still isn’t pleased they have a hanger-on.

 

“Fucking good woman.” Of course Clegane likes her. 

 

“You just have an inner connexion with the ugly and the scarred, you goit. Wench. Drinks.”

 

Thumping footsteps echo through the cockpit as Brian, no, Brienne, but calling her Brian gets her really pissed off, and that is gorgeous, goes about the catering challenge. Since she’s onboard, and hasn’t got anything to do, Jaime set her tasks. She does them, silently, resentment pouring from every inch of curiously pale skin, but she does them adequately. If he wasn’t upset at having her stalking about, being enormous and ridiculous, he’d tell Brienne that she was doing well. She’s good at making drinks. Anything is better than Clegane’s cooking, or the protein bars they tend to survive on during jaunts across the galaxy, or Jaime’s tasty but seriously ugly attempts at haute cuisine.

 

Whatever he cooks, it turns out brown and lumpy. It just happens.

 

Mugs are handed out, and the wench can make a decent brew, it has to be said. He hates her more for that. Why can’t she be rubbish, rather than stomping about, being efficient and knowledgeable about things? In the past two days she has talked at length with Clegane about hyperdrives and upgrading them, has demonstrated a working knowledge of lightsabres even though Brienne is about as Force sensitive as a dead bantha.

 

“Biscuits?”

 

“You’re out of biscuits.” She rests her elbows on the back of Clegane’s overly padded chair, points out that they might collide with a freighter, and the Zabrak launches into yet another tirade.

 

“How can we be out of biscuits?”

 

“You were up at 04.00 and ate them.”

 

Jaime glares. How does she know that?

 

“What were you doing awake at 04.00?”

 

“Not sleeping,” she says, evenly, though her expression tends towards the irate.

 

**********

 

Brienne, out of her depth, is quietly losing control. Not externally, but she is incredibly aware that she is nowhere near qualified to be bringing a rogue Sith back to the warm bosom of the Empire, especially as he seems to be in some sort of homosexual marriage with the Zabrak, who she rather likes, since he is honest, blunt, and good at what he does. If the Empire allowed non-humans to be Stormtroopers, Clegane could make an excellent ranked officer. Pity that, and hugely hypocritical, considering the ruling dynasty is red-skinned Sith, much of Imperial Intelligence is made of Rattaka and Chiss, and there are aliens in the Imperial Army. For some reason the Stormtrooper programme is pure blooded human.

 

The rumour of cloning goes around every six months or so, but other Stormtroopers point out Captain Tarth and say she is one of a kind. Always in a respectful way, for she is well-liked and is known to advocate for her men. She is a figurehead in her chromium plated armour, whose presence as the leader of the Red Keep division has led to record numbers of women applying to the Imperial forces in all areas.

 

Of course no one ever sees what lies under the armour, or her face, and they are used to her modulated voice, and if they did witness anything-

 

She breathes in, closes her eyes, trying to focus. How she is going to achieve this, she has no idea. Brienne is a soldier, not a tactician, unless in the midst of battle with the Rebellion harrying her boys from all sides, and she can snatch a wonder-filled victory from the slavering jaws of defeat. Other Stormtrooper captains are perfectly fine with collateral losses, but she fights to save every one of her soldiers and, for that, she is adored. Loved.

 

Being loved is something she never had before becoming a Stormtrooper, and she doesn’t really want to lose that, but if this goes wrong - and it will, because Brienne has seen the lightsabre hilt tucked away in a small locker, and the way Lannister moves, like silk and manka cats - everything is doomed. The Empress will have her head, because Whisperer is too valuable to make an example of.

 

What will happen to her boys if she isn’t there to love them? Protect them?

 

“Shit, Blondie,” she hears Clegane rumble. “Shit, we’re-”

 

“But we’ve got  _ her _ on board. We can’t do it now!”

 

“Fuck’s sake, I’m not fucking off. Credits, fucking credits.”

 

“No. Not credits. You are so predictable, Sandor. We’re in the middle of space, with a hitchhiker, and just because a pretty girl needs rescuing and you promised a bloody Jedi, you just want to infiltrate a bloody Imperial boat-”

 

“Ship. Wanker. It’s a ship.”

 

“Fine. Ship. Boat. Same thing. You want to infiltrate it, just the two of us, and rescue some ginger tart with nice tits and a title?”

 

“Three of us. Seen the blasters on Brienne? Those are sexy blasters.”

 

“And what, Sandor, makes you think that our lovely passenger who isn’t even supposed to be here will help us rescue your-”

 

Brienne sees the opening, mind whirring.

 

The two men have a task, that was given by a Jedi, to rescue someone. A girl. They need to storm an Imperial star ship to do so. If she, Brienne, goes with them, and assists, then they will trust her and she might be able to persuade Jaime Lannister to go back to his father and the Empress without bloodshed. She is one of the best troopers in the galaxy, frighteningly so, and Lannister lost his sabre hand so is therefore at a disadvantage, but against the two of them she doesn’t fancy her chances at coming out of the other side of fight alive.

 

It goes against every shred of honour that she possesses.

 

But? But. Her boys need her. Her little Stormtrooper family who look up to Brienne as mother, who would be lost without her calm, supportive leadership.

 

Brienne doesn’t even stop to think she doesn’t consider the Empire in her calculation.

 

She bites a thumbnail, attempts to stem a faint nausea. Through the transparisteel of the cockpit windows the wedge-shaped light cruiser before them drifts silently through the vast expanse of star-studded blackness.  _ Arquitens _ designation, Imperial paintwork curiously pristine, slight modification to the bow and the laser turrets concealed in the Empire manner. She knows these ships. She worked on one for several years before being seconded to the Red Keep. Brienne knows every corridor, every trash compactor, every tiny upgrade from the old Republic plans that the shipyard at Koj presented to the Dragon Emperor himself.

 

“How the hell are we getting onto that?” Jaime rests his cheek upon his cyborg hand.

 

“Blast the cunts in the docking bay.”

 

Brienne apologises to the ether, guilty, but her boys need their mother home. “With the Imperial modifications the Summer Isles made when they constructed the class for the Empire, they put in place an extra access port that leads to an isolated docking bay for maintenance vessels if there is any need for repairs during flight. I think this ship is small enough to fly in and dock, if that is of more use?”

 

The two men turn as one, yellow and green pairs of eyes staring.

 

“I...worked on cruisers, for a time. Before I...left.”

 

It is true. Everything she has said is true. Brienne does not lie. She just doesn’t tell the two men everything.

 

“Why are you helping us?” Lannister looks suspicious. Handsome. Brienne tries to ignore the fact, because he really is not a nice person. No Sith is, even one playing at being a smuggler. Even if his hair is gold, and his teeth are really good, and he has a rakishness that appeals. He’s a little bit...grubby. Dirty. Sinful. He always was as a Sith, nodding to her in the corridors of the Red Keep, in black, gold and red. He never wore a mask, because his looks are part of his weaponry. Jaime Lannister has the beauty of a Jedi and the heart of darkness, and it throws people.

 

Apparently it is very easy to win against people bearing metaphorical erections from the sheer gorgeousness of their enemy.

 

“Because it is the right thing to do, if a girl is being kept captive.” Aside from her low-grade nefarious intentions, which, compared to the high-level deviousness of Imperial Intelligence, are the sort dreamed up by a six year old, Brienne reads far too many romantic novels involving smugglers rescuing princesses from dangerous situations. Somewhere, somehow, it does seem right.

 

“Pfaask! We’ve got someone with honour on board, Clegane.” He examines Brienne, almost intimately, and she wishes she had her shining silver helm firmly over her head because, damn, the investigation makes her cheeks flame.

 

“Told you I fucking liked her, nerf-herder.” Clegane reaches back, punches her gently on the forearm. “If you die, I get your Imp blasters, yeah? Fuck, those blasters are fuckable.”

 

“Blasters,” Jaime adds, with acid in his tone, “are the other thing Clegane gets off on apart from pretty young women in mortal peril.”

 

“Lightsabre cocksucking blond shitmanka.”

 

They have to be a couple. There is no way they aren’t.

 

Brienne finds herself almost disappointed. Slightly aroused. But also disappointed.

 

**********

 

“Do you have your toothbrush?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Bacta patches.”

 

“Why do we need-?”

 

“Anything could happen, smuggler.”

 

Stannis hates packing. He is never sure what needs to be added to the pile of things to put in a suitcase, and, if he had his way, he’d take underwear, a change of robes, and his lightsabre. Enough credits for a decent cabin on a fast transport with a water-based refresher and a large comfortable bed. Medication, obviously. He is meticulous like that. Toiletries. Nothing else, but Davos, who is seen by the wider galaxy as the sensible one in their relationship, insists on clothing for occasions such as dinner, casual wandering around planetside bazaars, and several weights of jacket. Boots, and shoes, and, once, horrifyingly, a pair of sandals.

 

“Then we are ready.” He tries to do the mind trick on his partner to convince Davos that nothing else is needed, and is met with a lovingly exasperated sigh.

 

“We have no idea how long we’ll be on Dorne, Stannis. You need something else apart from your robes. What about that nice suit I bought you last year? That’s light enough for desert conditions”

 

Stannis mutters something, kicks the side table.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“S’not robes. If I’m not in my robes, they don’t know I’m a Jedi.”

 

“That’s the point, love. Sometimes it’s okay not to be a Jedi for a bit.”

 

“But I need to save the galaxy!”

 

“And you need to sit down sometimes, relax, let yourself have a rest. You look tired, Stannis, and you’re fretting all over the place. You don’t even come and cuddle before you sleep any more, you’re always working. I miss you, that’s all. I miss us, like we were.”

 

He ends up wrapped in Davos’ arms, and there is furtive snuggling.

 

“If I don’t do this, who else will?” A sigh, and he closes his eyes, Davos’ maimed fingers tracing the Rebellion sigil on the back of his neck.

 

“You can’t do it if you’re so burned out you lose yourself, can you? Daft bastard. Look, when we get to Dorne, why don’t we take a few days to ourselves? The Water Gardens is lovely this time of year, and we can get a massage, go in the heated pools, just potter about together. We just tell them what’s happened with Jaime, we give them a chance to consider an alliance, and while they’re thinking about it because Oberyn won’t give us an immediate answer, we’ll have a holiday. Just a few days, nothing mad, like we did with our honeymoon?”

 

“I hate you being right.”

 

“I’m always right.” Davos’ voice smiles, and the kiss to Stannis’ neck is very much appreciated. “Why don’t we go and have a lie down?”

 

Stannis nods, pauses. “Lie down, or _ lie down _ ?”

 

The smuggler laughs, smoky. “Either, if you want. Both. I could suck the tension out of you if-?”

 

Stannis breaks because that is a promise that needs fulfilling and it has been too long and there is nothing like a randy ex-smuggling captain with a slight oral fixation, grabs Davos by the hand, and drags him out of the dressing room and into their bed chamber.

 

* * *

 

“You look beautiful.” The Sith nods his pleasure, hidden by the mask and robes. “You will give me beautiful children, Sansa. Your pretty face, and my ambition. My intelligence. Such children will be emperors, one day. Your blood purity, your Jedi family. Cat bred four of five of her children as Force sensitive and left you to carry on her legacy.”

 

She says nothing, because what can she say? Sansa pushes at the delicious and appetising food upon the plate, the hunger she felt before her captor started talking about breeding fleeing in an instant.

 

“With you as my consort, I will take the Throne from the Empress. My destiny will be fulfilled. Our children, and we shall have strong children, will carry our legacy for centuries. The galaxy, under my thumb, under the thumb of my son, and his son, and onwards, the Force blazing through them as they destroy everyone who would destroy me and my own. I will show them that I am not to be thrust aside, that I am the heir of the Empire, the true heir! They will suffer my rule, my anger, for what they dare!”

 

He puts his lightsabre, black and red, through the table. Again. Screaming is involved. Again.

 

Sansa came to the conclusion days before that this is definitely not Baelish. If it were Petyr, he would be calmer. Collected. Machiavellian in word and deed. The Sith loses his temper, or flies into a rage, or roars at the stars as he paces around the dinner table. He rants about blood, and legacies, and fulfilling what is promised to him. He flips, in an instant, from creepily attentive to destructive and mad. Whoever he is, he is not Petyr, and that is not reassuring. With Baelish Sansa has a modicum of control. She knows what he wants - her. Power. Possibly in that order - and she can appeal to his nature. Enough flirting to soothe his ego, but never enough to allow him to think that she belongs to him. A tightrope of diplomacy, combined with careful management.

 

“I will wed you when we reach Volantis. You will say yes, Sansa. I have ways of making you say yes.”

 

The Sith has not hurt her, not yet. She does nothing to anger him, and keeps herself small and docile. 

 

He turns on her, the lightsabre blazing, almost throbbing with evil, and runs a metalled finger across her lips. “You will say yes. You will give me Force-sensitive sons. You will be my Empress. You will be everything I say you will be, because you do not want me to be angry. It is your destiny to be mother of an Empire. You do not want to ruin it, do you?”

 

“No, ser.” Whispered, and she feels sick.

 

“That gown becomes you.” His hand trails along her pale neck, touching the silver chain about her throat, the one with the tiny greenish crystal that Sansa has worn since she was a child, over her collarbone, to the swell of her breasts pushed up obscenely in one of the flimsy Essosian-style dresses he has her wear. “They watch you, the crew. The Mountain. They watch you, and want you, and that is erotic, is it not? Because you. Are. Mine. Not theirs. Having them want you, tugging themselves off thinking of your body, that...excites me.”

 

Sansa swallows, fixes her gaze ahead.

 

To her complete relief, heart thudding, the chamber door swooshes open. Gold helmeted as always, the Mandalorian thuds into the room.

 

“What now?!” 

 

“Issue in engineering. Ship landed. Instructions required.”

 

Binary. He speaks binary. Whatever is under the plate and plastisteel is not human. Definitely not alive. The voice through the helmet is heavily modulated, and seems...dead. Dead and rusty, the lowest of bass, and utterly without emotion. It is the voice of someone who was once alive, and is now more droid than person.

 

Sansa cannot contain the shudder of revulsion.

 

“I will return, wife. Then I will take you. My seed is strong.”

 

Blaster fire, and someone laughs, almost cheerful, over the open comms link throughout the ship, and the Sith touches Sansa’s fingers to the rudimentary mouth slit in his helm, whirling away in an intimidation of black and red.

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *brushes the dust off and sneezes*

* * *

 

 

The First of her Name shimmers silver and white as she sweeps gracefully through the blackened corridors of her citadel. The straight-backed salmon-skinned female beside her, blaster casually crooked over her finned elbow and clad in salt-stained leathers, is the sort of toughened mercenary that makes women thoughtful and men worry for their own masculinity. 

 

Mon Calamari are, after all, an acquired taste.

 

The First of Her Name, Conqueror of the Slavers and Ruler of the vast star seas beyond the ancient empire of her forefathers, has that taste.

 

Suitors approach, realise that they’ll never compare to a dead Dothraki warlord husband and an aquatic pirate paramour, and slink away, confused that someone as beautiful, delicate, so very human as the First of Her Name would stoop so low to consort with sentients. But then, half of them think, Dothraki are not exactly civilised, and perhaps the First’s venture into marriage with Khal Drogo has given her a lust for the more...unconventional partner.

 

Not that any will mention this to the First of Her Name’s perfect face. They’re still scraping pieces of the last poor soul who happened to piss off the First of Her Name from various ceilings.

 

Her dragons lounge about her person.

 

The Ysalamiri. She names her three flagships after them. Her children. One creamy tinged with red eyes. Another golds and greens. The last, the one who rides upon her shoulder and grows fat and feral with her blessing, flicks a black forked tongue lazily and nuzzles into Mummy’s slender neck.

 

“We need to get that damned ship back, Dany.” No one else calls the First of Her Name by her actual, you know, name. Only her space pirate.

 

“How do you suggest we proceed?”

 

The Mon Calamari grins, rather vicious. The Greyjoy clan are atypical of their race. “I’ve always wanted to blast that thing out of the sky.”

 

“There are people on it, Yara.” 

 

“People,” she points out, “that we really bloody hate.” A significant look.

 

“I would prefer not to become involved in a genocide just to retake the  _ Meereen _ , love. Innocents must be protected, even if the will of the Gods is that I am to retake all that is lost.”

 

“Maybe some renegades will come across the damned thing and do what needs doing.”

 

The First of Her Name pauses, runs small white fingers across the breastplate of Captain Greyjoy’s leathers. Her lover wears masculine attire, and it suits her lean slenderness. It more than suits. It drives The First absolutely mad with want.

 

Something about the mating cycles of the Mon Calamari infect their partners. The race, as a whole, prefers love making at full moon. Considering that somewhere, at any point, across the entire galaxy, there is always a full moon, it is impressive that the burgeoning Empire of the Dragon Queen actually gets things done. She could do with some wonderful administrative mind who can deal with everything for the twelve hours out of the standard Galactic calendar that she and the Captain are...otherwise engaged.

 

“That time, eh?”

 

If Mon Calamari females were not supposed to be lesbians, why equip them with that length of middle finger, and the sort of gill system that means the Captain doesn’t ever need to come up for air?

 

Greyjoy crowds her against the nearest wall.

 

“We’re on page ninety four,” she hisses, fins erecting with anticipation.

 

Their copy of the seminal work,  _ The Cala Sutra _ , is a little dog-eared these days but holding up brilliantly.

 

* * *

 

“Master Dayne.”

 

“Master Baratheon.”

 

The Jedi bow low.

 

“Martell is-?”

 

“My Prince awaits your arrival at the Water Gardens, Master Baratheon. Have you felt the change in the Force?”

 

Irritation spatters liberally across Baratheon’s features and Davos, lovingly, wonders if enough cranial massage will get to the base of the obviously looming headache. It isn’t as if Stannis wanted to come, but the duty of his brotherhood demanded it. There is so much to discuss, in regards to Sansa Stark, the rebellion of Jaime Lannister, the threat of Darth Castamere and the Empress to all they survey. 

 

He also knows that part of Stannis, a restless and easily bored part, enjoys the adventure. Of course he’s excellent at the administrative side of the Jedi; it is why he basically runs the whole show. Everything is nicely collated and colour coded in a range of filing cabinets and encrypted holocrons back at Storm’s End. The annual fee to continue being an official member of the Jedi Order goes towards the cost of running, legal fees, expenses.

 

If Stannis wasn’t a Jedi, he’d be an excellent accountant, or office manager.

 

“Which one? I can’t move for the Force changing these days, Dayne.”

 

The undeniably gorgeous Knight of Dorne - and Davos has to admit that, because he’s got eyes, but Arthur is nothing compared to the lean aesthetic man he loves - fixes him with a zealot’s gaze.

 

“Dondarrion’s pupil.”

 

“I was thinking more Jaime Lannister defecting.”

 

Both Jedi manage a rather wonderful double take.

 

“He has?”

 

“Please tell me that Dondarrion isn’t actively trying to teach anyone? Please?”

 

Dayne draws himself up, a strange glitter in his violet eyes. “The darkness within obliterates everything else.”

 

Stannis grinds his teeth.

 

“Martell has a new pet.”

 

They fall into stride, leading from the landing pad and through the elegant beauty of the Water Gardens. Several young Twi’lek girls race over, squeal, demand hugs, and Davos, because he is basically the Dad of the Universe to many of the younglings who belong to various factions they deal with, swoops them into his arms with a chuckle.

 

It’d be lovely to have more little ones. Stannis accuses him of being broody sometimes, because Davos can’t quite stop broadcasting his need for tiny fingers and toes when he thinks about more kids.

 

“Are you here to see Daddy?” asks the one with the fantastically striped lekku. “He’s drinking caf with Willas.

 

“Who’s Willas, sweetheart?” 

 

The child grins, teeth very white against the moss green of her lips. All of Oberyn’s daughters are unfairly pretty. “He’s Daddy’s new friend.”

 

Oberyn’s been on the pull. Again.

 

“Is he nice?”

 

“He’s red, like Mummy was.”

 

Oberyn and his Twi’lek fascination.

 

*****

 

It is obvious that Davos is quite wrong the moment he sees Oberyn Martell - who he wants to like, but trying to have sex with his Jedi really puts a man off the louche Dornishman - talking with a very good looking, very red-skinned, very full-blooded Sith boy dripping in gold and nerves.

 

“...the pet?” Stannis manages to stay rather calm, but he has Lightbringer in his hand in an instant. “Is a Tyrell?”

 

Not Loras. Not gaudy enough. Not Garlan. Not military enough. Not Lady Margaery. Not bosomy enough. That leaves Willas. The cripple. 

 

“He reneged. Apparently.” Dayne curls his lip, gives Stannis and Davos a paintstrippingly disgusted expression. “He stole an X-Wing and came from the Citadel. Apparently.”

 

“Threat?”

 

“None whatsoever. I’ve never met a more pathetic creature in my entire existence, and I have unfortunately met Theon Greyjoy who attempted to have sex with me. He does not understand the celibacy of the Jedi.” Dayne glares, ignoring the married and therefore very non celibate Jedi Master lurking at his side. Hypocritical doesn’t quite stretch far enough to encompass the Order sometimes. “I wish to remove the Sith. My Prince will not have him removed. We remain at stalemate.”

 

“Are they having intercourse?”

 

Stannis is, under his veneer of leader of the Jedi, a passionate man. He makes love enthusiastically albeit as if moving through a flow chart. Davos likes to spice things up a little sometimes, or as much as a man well into middle age can. Flavoured condoms. A little bit of very light bondage. Amusing yet sexy underwear. The usual things that might delight, or tease, or inspire. Stannis allows this, he enjoys this, but he gets to a certain point and however into it he is, he does default back to  _ if blowjob is in session, and finger is not yet inserted into orifice A, insert finger. If finger is inserted, move to testicular massage _ .

 

It’s a control thing.

 

Both Jedi stare at the pretty red-skinned Sith who flinches, says something apologetically, rubs at his temples. The way he looks up makes Davos think of some lost bantha calf.

 

“Stop that, you two. Poor lad.”

 

“He is Sith, Davos. He is not a ‘poor lad.’”

 

The patented Seaworth Kind But Disappointed glance stops both men from their mental rummaging, and, as one, Dayne and Stannis apologise.

 

“S’rry.”

 

“Good. Now let’s go and say hello and, both of you, be polite.”

* * *

 

Willas decides he’s very pleased to have the very kind Captain Seaworth there in about 0.34 of a second. He shivers at Stannis Baratheon’s invasive and cold stare, before he is enveloped in warm arms, a beard tickles his shoulder, and he finds himself being hugged to within an inch of his life.

 

It’s lovely having contact with someone who isn’t afraid of him, and isn’t Oberyn. Not that they touch. No, well. They do, a little. Fingertips when glasses are passed over, and when Willas needs support because of his leg his saviour wraps a judicious arm about his waist and makes it all rather romantic in the sort of way that could be like one of those old-time holofilms. Oberyn strokes his cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers, calls him brave and clever, listens. There are, however, no hugs. Willas knows that is for the best, because his body might betray him a little as his new friend is so very handsome, and so terribly nice to him.

 

A passing infatuation with a beautiful man is probably awfully silly, and Oberyn has so many daughters that he obviously enjoys women rather than his own sex, so best to keep quiet and try not to wake up sticky and embarrassed too many nights in a row.

 

The kind Captain Seaworth - “call me Davos, lad,” - settles them down on the settee.

 

“Bit of a shock seeing a Sith about. A Tyrell, aye?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Davos, lad. Davos. We’re all equal here, even if I’m just a jumped-up old smuggler and you’re royalty.”

 

Awfully kind.

 

“They treating you okay?”

 

“Everyone is so decent, and Oberyn-”

 

Davos smiles slightly, ruffles Willas’ dark curls and makes his gold chime.

 

“Be careful with that one, eh? He’s smooth, but he’s a bit, y’know. Rampant. You’re a good-looking boy, so just take care. If you need anyone to chat you about anything at all, I’ll give you my personal holo. Stannis won’t take kindly to Sith calling the house, but he’s never really approved of my mates. Why break the habit of a lifetime?”

 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly put you out and upset your Master Jedi, si-Davos.” Using the name makes him feel slightly giddy. No one in the Empire uses their names, apart from he and his siblings. All of the titles, all of the time.

 

The polite argument escalates, and Davos sighs, runs his hands through his short-cropped silvery hair.

 

Willas decides that he might have an odd sort of crush on the man. He’s the anti-Oberyn, but is so lovely, and decent, and good, that it’d be hard not to think about being hugged all day long in those strong smuggler’s arms.

 

It is only later, tucked up in bed with a book and a mug of warm blue milk, that he rewinds and wonders what Davos means about being careful around Prince Oberyn.

 

* * *

 

The argument is, mostly, curtailed when Hotah comes to them. For all his years of loyal service, and all he has seen, he looks...perturbed.

 

“There is another Jedi here, my Prince. He brings an apprentice.”

 

Baratheon and Dayne stop squabbling, frustratingly for Oberyn who is waiting for the argument to get to such a stage where they rut and fuck to decide who wins, and, as one, turn.

 

“Dondarrion.”

 

The Grey Jedi. 

 

“Ah, you must bring him in. We shall receive more guests most happily.”

 

There is nothing that Oberyn likes more than Force users getting together. The sexual frustration pours, they all want to make love with each other and yet don’t, and it fuels his night time fantasies for weeks. Indeed, the last time he dreamed that Arthur and Stannis met for their usual bitchfest, he was being used as the sheath for their mutual lust/loathing; fascinating to be taken at both ends by men who can manipulate the Force into being a fourth partner. Having never slept with a Jedi, or a Sith in that matter, it is a To Do on his bucket list.

 

He is, however, not prepared for Dondarrion.

 

To be perfectly honest, none of them are. Even the ones who know him.

 

The man, red-gold hair cropped short, eyepatch covering a socket, scarred and smeared in something that has to be blood but definitely isn’t human, comes before them. He’s tall, and well-built, and wears the same sort of horrifying robes that other Jedi prefer, but there’s something different. Whereas Arthur and Baratheon look noble, and true, and heroic, Master Dondarrion seems…

 

Other. He moves with a grace that belies his size, and Oberyn has the distinct impression that he is as kinky as fuck. He grins, too. A wide affable grin that almost detracts from fires that burn in his golden-pupiled eye.

 

Sexy. Possibly completely insane.

 

The man with him, short and monochromatic and definitely dark side, glares murder. He, for Oberyn at least, is most pleasingly attired in tight black leather and big boots, and looks more like a fetish holostar than a Force user.

 

“Afternoon all.” Beric bows his head.

 

“What the hells are you doing with that boy?” Stannis can’t stop staring at the apprentice.

 

“Teaching him.” Simply.

 

“A Bolton. The darkness in him, Dondarrion-”

 

“I told you I’d be a better Sith, bitch, but you never lis-”

 

Casually, appallingly, Beric Dondarrion electrocutes his apprentice. Everyone flinches, apart from Oberyn, because it is slightly erotic to watch a man dominate another so easily. “Manners, Ramsay. Remember where you are, and what you promised. Be good.”

 

Sharp white teeth grit, hating pale eyes tighten for a moment, before a large scarred hand slips through the young man’s hair. This Ramsay, who is handsome and evil in the manner of the perfect villain, recovers admirably.

 

He’s insane. Dondarrion is absolutely barking. He’s madder than a Wookiee who’s had their bowcaster eaten by a marauding bantha. There he stands, smeared in blood, smiling benign as his eyes tell another story, casually torturing someone who should be Sith and that he’s taken as an apprentice.

 

Oberyn’s gaze sharpens.

 

Beric Dondarrion must be amazing in bed. It shall be known.

 

* * *

 

“They’re twats.” Ramsay flops face-first onto the pristine white-quilted bed in their shared room - shared bed, too, because Martell thinks they’re shagging and seems keen to get in on the action, the pervert - viciously pleased to soil the synthsilk with the various grimy parts of his clothing. 

 

“They’re Jedi. It’s what we are for, Ramsay.”

 

“You’re not like that.” It’s true. For all of Beric’s strange ramblings, the bondage as punishment, the occasional Sith-y lightning bolt directed at his person, he’s far less of a cock than Masters Dayne and Baratheon. They think they’re better than everyone else. They stand there, in their bloody awful robes with their swords with names, and look down on Ramsay because he’s different. They do the same with Dondarrion. They see Beric, huge and glittering and balanced between Light and Dark, and mock. 

 

The Light’s all a load of shit, anyway.

 

He feels it, very occasionally. He didn’t torture someone before he killed them because part of Ramsay’s very buried conscience said it might be wrong. He didn’t tear the throat out of a living person with his teeth because it wasn’t the nicest of things to do.

 

So he just killed them and chewed a bit on their corpse while they were still warm, like a civilised person.

 

“You’re not Jedi. You’re not like them.”

 

Beric strips off his outer robe. Underneath he wears faded brown leathers, long boots. Everything fits quite tightly, and suits him better than the sack he insists on throwing over the top.

 

Ramsay turns his head, comes face to face with the front of Dondarrion’s clinging trousers, stares for a moment, before crawling up the bed to faceplant into a pillow. A hand slaps him companionably on the arse before lingering, rubbing, and it feels kind of nice. It’s the sort of pain that sends a heat through his body, Not intense and stimulating his Dark Side like the lightning, but almost, he doesn’t really know. Reassuring.

 

“I’m not like anyone, Ramsay. There have been few of the Grey. Most fall to the Dark or the Light, and do not fight for balance. If I were not here, they’d find their lives less easy. Dirtying their own hands can drive other men towards matters that they do not wish to contemplate. I provide a service. It is despised, but necessary.”

 

“I can kill them if you want?”

 

A murmur of soft leather, a faint smile as Beric turns onto his hip. They are almost pressed together; an inch separating them. His face remains calm, but his eyes short-circuit with the impact of dying too often, and coming back changed every time.

 

It’d be like fucking a corpse.

 

Ramsay loves corpses.

 

“That’s very sweet of you, but we can’t go around murdering Master Jedi just because they don’t like me, can we?”

 

Could Beric Dondarrion fall? They’ve got this Master and apprentice thing going, and even if Ramsay tries to kill him on a daily basis, it’s not bad. Less than not bad now he’s seen how Beric fights, and kills, and seemingly revels in the slaughter and blood. In a moment like that, he is pure Darkness. The lightning says so, and the blood across his cheek that’s flaking just a little, and Ramsay finds he’s scratching at the patch with a fingernail, leaving the freckled skin underneath reddish and welted.

 

“Blood? Oh dear. I should have a bath. It gets so itchy if you leave it too long.”

 

“Sounds like you fucking bathe in it.”

 

A honey-golden eye meets his. 

 

Something whirrs. Clicks. Don’t Sith have eyes that colour?

 

Shit. Does that mean-?

 

“I am quite messy with my killing; it comes from wanting to get it over as soon as possible, so not to waste resources and time.”

 

“Master?”

 

Every time Ramsay calls him that, something flickers across Beric’s face; his expression cracks, just a little. As if he’s getting off on it.

 

“Yes?”

 

Control is interesting. He lacks it, and Beric has it all, but when that title is uttered, Ramsay claws a little back. He decides to experiment, because he can, and he closes the small gap between them simply be leaning closer.

 

“Master…”

 

“I can read your mind, Ramsay. Remember that. I am not a Sith. I am not becoming aroused by you purring in my ear. You will not have control from me, either.”

 

Beric’s smiling. He looks almost proud.

 

Frustrated by the turn of events, Ramsay strips off angrily, throws his bloodied boots at something expensive that Beric saves with a casual wave of his hand and the Force, and goes to shower.

 

He doesn’t notice Dondarrion’s gaze never leaving his naked arse, or the way the man closes his eyes and starts reciting a code that is neither Sith nor Jedi, but a strange mixture of them both.

 

* * *

 

“This way?” Jaime points his blaster, making three frightened crewmembers squeak and duck, “or this way?” Directing using a weapon seems conducive to dangerous explosions and death, but he doesn’t really care. He’s running on derring-do, and swashbuckling, and hopes his hair flops rakishly enough to look absolutely bloody brilliant.

 

Clegane snorts, rolls his eyes, fishes one of the cowering humans out from behind a useful bit of decor, and shakes him. They’ve seen nothing but humans. Whoever runs the _ Meereen _ definitely tends towards the imperial racist side of things. Red and black everywhere.

 

“Where’s the girl?”

 

“Pardon?” Politeness in the face of possible death is usual when in the employment of a mad Sith.

 

“Girl. Human. Redhead probably. Are the Starks all fucking redheads?”

 

The person whimpers. He’s scrawny, and pale, and looks like a mouse. The blond boy with him, in the same flat grey uniform and stupid hat, holds onto the back of his tunic as if terrified that this - the name badge says Mitaka - is going to be eaten by furious spiky death warriors. Which might happen. Zabrak have a reputation to maintain, and Clegane likes to appear as menacing as any man who cultivates spines and marked skin can. No one apart from Jaime knows that he likes space operettas, cultivates an interest in akk dog puppies, and edges towards the nerdy when it comes to vast knowledge of pre-Empire weaponry.

 

“Girl,” repeats Clegane. He must be in a good mood, since he doesn’t usually bother to ask nicely the second time.

 

“W-with him,” squeaks Mitaka, pointing down yet another set of corridors. When released by Clegane, he flings himself into the comforting arms of the blond boy who looks spookily like that weirdo Jojen Reed.

 

Brienne crouches next to the three of them, murmurs something, pats them gently on their heads, and follows down the echoing metallic hall.

 

“You’re being nice to Imps?”

 

“They’re human, too.” Something tightens in her pretty eyes.

 

“It’s almost like you empathise with them, wench,” Jaime adds cheerfully. “Explains that accent, doesn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

The Sith doesn’t make it to the end of the hall before he returns in his customary whirl of scarlet and ebony. He strides back into the chamber, smooths Sansa’s hair back from her cheek with silk and plate fingers lingering far too familiarly at her throat. Ugh.

 

“They are coming,” he says, sighing rather too theatrically. “ I shall fight them here, before you, and demonstrate why I shall become Emperor. When I have slaughtered them for daring to try and take you from me, sweetling, we shall consummate what is written in the stars. This coupling will breed me a fine son. I feel it in the Force. We shall await marriage, but I will not await your body. Passion drives me. I will have you, here, amongst the corpses of my enemies.”

 

Every time he speaks Sansa’s flesh crawls with horror. Whatever he looks like under the metallic helm, and he is probably ridiculously handsome because, for some reason, most evil people in the galaxy tend to be - Loras Tyrell, for example, with his dreamy good looks and penchant for the Dark Side - she’ll chop off various bits with her dessert spoon rather than let him near.

 

Another explosion, and the door disintegrates.

 

“Nothing is so sweet as killing,” the modulated voice announces, turning to face their attackers.

 

“Oh kriffing hells. Not you?”

 

“...Lannister. Did you not learn when I took your hand?”

 

“You didn’t take my hand,” the handsome blond sighs, shaking his head. “Yes, technically you did, but you didn’t get the original one, did you? Just the robotic one. It isn’t as if that’s any sort of achievement, is it?”

 

The Sith screams, feedback deafening, making himself look big.

 

Lannister, and that name weighs heavy, familiar, tilts his head, entirely unimpressed.

 

Given the glamour of the smuggler, and aren’t all girls supposed to be rescued by bad boy pirates with devil may care attitudes? Isn’t that what happens? Sansa takes a moment to realise that there are indeed two more people accompanying who she’s now dubbing Hot Blond Smuggler Man. Anything is, really. The first is blonder, and taller, and female, and carries a blaster as if it’s an extension of her arm. A kindness wells in her expression as she spots Sansa, and she takes the opportunity to creep as well as someone approximately six and a half feet tall can creep, smiling reassuringly and asking, very softly, if everything is fine, has he touched her, does she need anything?

 

Nice Blonde Smuggler murmurs that she’s called Brienne, and they’re here to rescue her on behalf of Master Baratheon and the other Jedi.

 

“Why do you not fight me as an equal, Kingslayer?!” screeches the Sith.

 

“Because the last time we fought you were picking your teeth out of your face for a week. Hence the mask.”

 

The black and red sabre zwooshes into life.

 

“He’s a Sith,” Sansa points out, somewhat unnecessarily.

 

“So are Lannisters,” Brienne whispers, all Imperial voiced and gentle. She shrugs out of her jacket, nose wrinkling with distaste at the flimsy robe in which Sansa is...well, displayed, and wraps it snug around too much bare skin.

 

“He’s a Sith? But he’s a smuggler?” Lannister wasn’t dressed well enough to even approach the idea of being a Sith.

 

“He’s rebelling,” Brienne adds, and a tiny note of softness colours her voice. As if Brienne is slightly pleased with this treacherous Sith who is doing something rather un-Sithish.

 

“Come at me!”

 

“Fucking shoot the whining cunt in the face this time,” rumbles another voice. Sansa, startled, looks up. And up. And up. When someone is quite that tall, they don’t really register as a person; more like a massive piece of furniture that is quite difficult to spot when included in a group with Lannister and Brienne due to their magnetic blond/e enormity. 

 

Sansa has met Zabrak before. She’s socialised with all sorts of sentients due to her family ties with many parts of the galaxy, but none of them have been so big, and imposing, and muscular, and broadly built, and fiercely scarred, and possessing enormous hands that could quite snap a girl in two if they were used too roughly, and tattooed, and imposing, and muscular, and-

 

She squeaks, faintly. Brienne takes it as terror.

 

“No, you mustn’t be afraid of Clegane. He’s decent underneath.”

 

Fear isn’t all hot, and wet, and vaguely squirmy. This isn’t fear.

 

Usually Sansa goes for pretty men, of the mostly human type, who end up being complete and utter pigs, or Empire, or not into women, or, in the case of certain Tyrells, all three. She likes the romance of it all, and the possibility of kissing handsome men makes her giggly. She gossips wonderingly about kissing with her various female friends, who giggle in return, and then they talk about all the handsome Jedi. Jeyne does have a distressing crush on the very odd Master Beric but they tease her gently for that, and think more of Arthur Dayne or, for those not related to them, Jon and Robb. Thinking about kissing handsome men, however, pales into significance when faced with the possibility of being hefted upon the shoulder of the spiky brutish mercenary and born away like some sort of prize to a comfortable bed where he and his large hands, and tongue, and other parts, may reduce her to something akin to a quivering jellyish mass.

 

“He’s enormous.”

 

Is he that big everywhere?

 

How would it even fit?

 

The Zabrak catches her eye, gaze trickling over her half-naked body, and he grins with pointed teeth that should be nibbling at her toes or other parts as yet unconsidered.

 

“He’s a filthy brute though,” Brienne adds, censoriously, tucking the leather jacket tighter around Sansa’s bosom. Sansa, thrillingly, hopes that filthy bruteness means all of those naughty thoughts crowding into her hereto unsullied and quite naive mind.

 

The Sith and Lannister snipe insults, though her captor’s voice keeps rising shriller and shriller, cutting through her reverie about thuggish mercenaries with tight trousers. Indeed, given the situation, she feels like she needs to make some sort of comment about the actual action, rather than dreaming about the hopefully eventual mutual orgasm having.

 

Sansa knows all about orgasms, theoretically, but she’s always considered them something that happens to other, rather less polite, girls like her sister. Arya probably has orgasms coming out of her ears, wherever she is. She’s safe, of course. The Force tells them all that; even Sansa who isn’t able to wield it knows.

 

“He’s got a horrid temper on him. He’ll be perfectly normal one moment, and then. Ugh. Awful.”

 

“They always do.” 

 

“How do you know about Sith?”

 

Brienne licks her lips, and then gives a tiny, rather sweet smile, though her honest blue eyes remain troubled. “Lannister isn’t the only rebel here. I used to be a Stormtrooper.”

 

* * *

 

“Who is he?” asks the girl. She’s Clegane fodder. All red hair, and wide eyes, and simply beautiful.

 

Jaime hates fighting other Sith. Not because he’s worse than them - quite the contrary - but because they’re just so unnecessarily over-the-top to the point of embarrassment. They’re all showy gestures and idiotic clothing, trying to create this air of menace when all they’re doing is making a laughing stock of what it means to be a warrior of the Force. Pfassk, the most dangerous people are the ones that don’t make show of their abilities. Clegane, who looks like a weapon of mass destruction, and the big sod is precisely that, knows when to hold his blaster fire. Jaime never fights when it isn’t needed. They’re probably the most lethal combination in the galaxy, and with added Brienne power - she’s handy with her fists as well as her weaponry, and her face is enough to terrify anyone into pleading for their lives, poor wench - they’re nigh on unstoppable.

 

“Viserys Targaryen. The brother to the First of Her Name.” Or was. He’s quite dead now. Jaime got bored with all the posturing and ended up quite pleased he brought a blaster to a lightsabre fight.

 

Sansa shivers, edges a little closer to the protective enormousness of Clegane who radiates smug as a bit of her brushes against a bit of him.

 

He’s never been able to read people’s heads, not like some of the Jedi. Something about his own power manifests in martial abilities rather than Sith invasiveness, which means Jaime fights beautifully but never attained the heights of the Tyrells, or his father, in matters of subversion and mind control. It’s quite Dark, and Jaime?

 

Really isn’t Dark at all. He never was. He just had to be, because of the name, the titles, the position.

 

Something green lays upon the collar bones of Sansa Stark, winking in the cold fake overhead lighting strip.

 

“Nice crystal,” he calls, nodding at her chest, smirking as Clegane’s fists tighten possessively.

 

“Oh. I was given it as a child.” She touches it fondly, then frowns, lips parting. Confusion makes her look like a very pretty idiot. Her touch pulls back an inch, before she’s rubbing at the mineral once more.

 

“Are you alright, Sansa?” Brienne’s being protective. It’s hilarious. Any time Clegane even peeks at the Stark girl the massive blonde shifts her weight as if to say ‘just come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’ To be perfectly honest she looks a lot better post-battle, but then that’s probably the warrior version of beer goggles. A post fight shag sounds about right, and Brienne’s sturdy enough, and her eyes are simply marvellous in that unfortunate but character-filled face. The body, of course, looks second-to-none, and the ripple of abs promised under fabric makes Jaime both jealous and faintly aroused.

 

“My crystal is hot.”

 

“Not the fucking hottest thing in this bloody room,” Clegane mutters in Zabraki, and Brienne obviously understands him as her expression changes from concern to murderous in a moment. Why she looks better when she wants to punch something Jaime doesn’t know. She just does. It’s seriously odd.

 

If he’s now looking at a wench with a face like a slapped arse and an Imperial accent so thick that she practically oozes Empire and wondering about what sleeping with her would be like, then he’s seriously past breaking point in the race to get laid. It’d be like screwing a bloke, albeit with amazing abs and mile-long legs that could crack his pelvis with rampant orgasmic lust.

 

That doesn’t frighten him as much as it should, though. It’d be bloody amazing fun to hate fuck Brienne, even if they don’t really hate each other that much. Brothers in arms, all of that, obviously. Maybe he’ll get her against a bulkhead in  _ Oath  _ and goad her into amazingly angry athletically charged sex?

 

Yeah. Shit. Jaime blinks and attempts to will away images of a pair of buttocks so tight and muscled that some could bounce credit chips in them, smiles charmingly, turns his attention back to Sansa Stark.

 

“Probably all the Force flowing around the room. Kyber crystals do that.”

 

Her thumb traces the pendant once more, before she smiles tremblingly. “Father gave me this. His lightsabre was green, like Robb’s, and Jon’s. Maybe it was a part of the crystal in his sabre, that he kept and gave to me? We all had one. Arya put hers in a- ”

 

“However much,” Clegane says suddenly, turning and looking at the ruined doorway, “you want to talk about Force bollocks, we got to get the fuck off this pile of space junk.”

 

“Says the man who flies what basically boils down to a slightly less aerodynamic garden shed.” He loves lighting the blue touchpaper of Clegane sometimes, just to see what happens, especially when they’re probably going to have to fight their way off a bloody Star Destroyer. The angrier the Zabrak gets, the more lethal his entire being. Useful when faced with however many Imperials trying to stop rebels running away with a far too valuable prize.

 

He flips his hair, ruffles it, checks in the transparisteel window that he’s looking particular rakish, and braces for an indignant swearing Clegane to start winding up toward explosion point.

 

“Fuck you, you fucking fucker! Don’t you fucking talk the fuck about fucking  _ Oath _ like a fucking cunt! Fuck! Fuckering fuckweasel. Fuck’s fucki-”

 

And there it is. Lovely.

 

“Clegane,” he tells Sansa as they decide to evacuate the Destroyer sharpish as according to various alarms, and calls for the Commanders plural, shit and fans are about to become mutually acquainted, “has the language of a rabid bantha, yet none of the wit and grace.”

 

As usual the Stormtroopers couldn’t hit a Twi’lek in a brothel, and they’re unscathed by the time they’re nearly to the ship. Just a little further; Sansa has to run with her arms tightly around her chest to stop herself flashing everyone while she’s running, which slows them down, but she seems quite a determined sort of girl to give her credit. In another life he’d have probably ended up married to her if the Empire succeeded in their kidnapping plan, because there’d be no way Viserys would be allowed to keep such a prize. They might have rubbed along alright, even if she wasn’t really Jaime’s ideal woman. He tends to go for blondes, with or without incredible abs.

 

“Just round this co-.”

 

To their left a door hisses open, releasing some sort of overly massive and armour clad ‘bot. It clicks something in binary, all golden helmet and ridiculously large blaster, striding confidently towards their little party of misfits. Sansa gasps, goes to say something, but Clegane turns on his toes like a Hutt trying to ballet and throat punches the droid angrily.

 

That level of anger is angry, even for Sandor.

 

“Fuck you, Gregor, you metal-cocked bastard!”

 

The language is the most family friendly they’ve heard in the last half an hour, and Jaime has no idea why, or how, or who, but he goes with it. Whatever this is, and it is a Thing obviously, he just lets the Zabrak get on with beating something that isn’t alive to death with his fists; it’ll help with the anger issues, and that’s only a good thing when confined to a small space vessel.

 

“Clegane is very muscular,” Sansa says, turning pink in the cheeks and patently attempting to not stare at the leather-clad backside of one of the most dangerous mercenaries in the galaxy as he tears the droid apart with his bare hands.

 

“Single, as well.” Jaime throws that out because despite all of their arguing, and teasing, and bitching, he and Clegane are bros after all. Who better to be a wingman than one of the greatest pilots in the galaxy, right? “Looking for the right woman to soothe his soul. Tragic backstory and everything, by they way. Heart of gold that beats under a brooding exterior that only the touch of a good woman can ever hope to sooth-ow! Why’d you do that, wench?!”

 

Brienne sniffs, shakes the hand that she smacked across the back of Jaime’s now throbbing skull, and strides past. 

 

Her arse? Definitely better than Clegane’s. Could balance a bottle of Shtööhb on that and still have room for a bowl of hubba chips.

 

* * *

 


End file.
